


Look Back in Anger

by vailkagami



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:39:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vailkagami/pseuds/vailkagami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Winchester is possessed by the yellow-eyed demon and asks his son to kill him, Sam does so and disappears, leaving his injured brother behind in a hospital. As a result of the demon's early death deals are never made and a lot of bad things never happen - but Dean doesn't know that. All he knows is that Sam killed his father and abandoned him.<br/>Looking for answers, Dean chases his brother all through the United States while Sam solves cases he couldn't possibly know about and always remains one step ahead. When Dean finally catches up with him, the answers he gets are not the ones he expected and it looks like no matter what he does, he's only going to lose Sam in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for a big bang, and the mega-skilled quickreaver did the amazing art for it. Sadly, the main artwork is disfunctional on her [lj post](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/17078.html). You can still find it on my original story post [here](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/143284.html).

_Bobby,_

 _You really want to know, huh? I’m telling you something: you don’t! I wish I didn’t know! Sometimes I really wish I had passed out sooner and never seen what really happened. I’d be up and running all through the country looking for Sam now, and I’m telling you, I’d be worried sick and pissed as hell at him for just running off without a note, but that would still be a lot better than what I’m feeling now._

 _At least I wouldn’t have to hate him. Dad’s gone, Bobby. Who’s left for me now but Sam?_

 _I don’t feel like talking about this on the phone. To be honest, I don’t want to hear what anyone else has to say about it. No one else could understand, anyway. I was there. So the last thing I want is someone telling me I imagined things, and that Sam had no other choice and felt horrible about it. Yadda yadda._

 _I fucking saw it. He was smiling!_

 _So, sorry I hung up on you the other day, but frankly, you have no idea what you’re talking about._

 _But Dad used to be your friend (once, at least), and Sam… Well. I guess you deserve to know._

 _And it’s not like I have anything better to do than watch TV and wait for another doctor to come in and poke at me. Because the only person left who’d care that I’m hurt and in the hospital… doesn’t. Too busy running – and with reason, too!_

 _It’s not really any consolation that Dad wouldn’t be here with me either._

 _Anyway. You already know we finally found the yellow eyed demon that killed Mom. Or make that he found us. He possessed Dad and we didn’t notice because holy water didn’t work on him – you ever seen anything like that? Well, anyway, I only got suspicious when Dad wasn’t pissed that I wasted a bullet of the Colt. I thought he would be furious. When he wasn’t, I knew something was wrong._

 _Too late, though. Bastard pinned both me and Sam ~~my~~ to the wall and then he… well, he hurt me. Pretty badly. But Dad, Dad wouldn’t let him kill me. He got back in control, which gave Sam a chance to grab the Colt. He shot Dad in the leg. Didn’t kill the demon, but it weakened him. The bastard wanted to leave, that was obvious, but Dad didn’t let him go. He kept yelling at Sam to end it, to shoot him while the demon was still inside. Fucking hero till the end._

 _I told Sam not to do it. I fucking begged him! But he did. He just said he was sorry and then he shot dad in the heart. Just like that._

 _And you know what? Dad wasn’t dead at once. No, he was alive long enough to realise that his dear son had just shot him. Out of revenge for his dead girlfriend. Sam was so obsessed with killing this thing, he was almost worse than Dad himself. And in the end Dad was just in the way._

 _And he was happy about it! Can you believe it? He thanked Sam! With his last breath he thanked the guy who killed him, while I was bleeding out beside him. And Sam…_

 _Sam fucking smiled. He killed Dad and smiled at him, and then he said – I wish I was making this up – He said, “Everything’s gonna be okay.”_

 _Like anything could be okay after that. He wasn’t sorry. Not in the least._

 _I passed out, then. When I woke up I had been in the hospital for three days, Dad was dead and the guy who’d called the ambulance for me left the moment they arrived, and he hasn’t shown his face here since then._

 _Fantastic, isn’t it? At least he was kind enough to make sure I got help, so I get a chance to enjoy life all alone._

 _  
~~I don't think I'll actually send this letter.~~   
_

_Oh, fucking hell._

 _Dean_

*-*-*-*

 _Bobby,_

 _The police were here again. They keep asking questions about how Dad died and what happened to me. Don’t seem to buy my story. It’s annoying. And it sucks. You’d think after having played the cop so often, I’d know how to convincingly lie to them. Then again, no one’s ever convincingly lied to me, so maybe it comes with the job._

 _Except for Sam. He lied to me damn well for all those years._

 _Or maybe he didn’t. I mean, he never even pretended to like Dad, let alone love him – at least not since he’s been – what? Eight, nine? A damn long time, in any case. And me he left. Just like that, because his own happiness was so much more important than his family, More important than me. So yeah, I suppose he never really cared for me all that much. I just didn’t want to see it._

 _Guess that makes this all my fault, huh? I so desperately wanted to believe that they loved me even half as much as I loved them, and this is what’s become of it._

 _Dad abandoned me, too. Never spared a thought for me, just let himself be killed for his damn revenge._

 _There would have been another way, if only any of them had been willing to fucking look for it!_

 _Anyway. No, I didn’t tell the police that my brother shot our father. Don’t know exactly why not. Maybe a part of me still can’t believe it. But no, that would be stupid. I saw it and Sam deserves what’s coming for him. And if he had better reasons than revenge and convenience he missed the chance to share them with me._

 _So yeah, I don’t know. Maybe being arrested for murder would be too pathetic an end for a Winchester. Besides, I really don’t feel like having the police knock on my door again when they start to investigate the family drama. But this is the last time I protect Sam. If I never see his face again I’ll die happy._

 _I’m not interested in his excuses. I just don’t want to deal with him anymore. I basically raised him. I sacrificed everything for him. He killed the only man I ever looked up to in cold blood._

 _I have nothing left to say to him._

 _Dean_

*-*-*-*

 

 

 _Bobby,_

 _I’m leaving the hospital today. The doctors (not to mention the nurses) would like to keep me a little longer, and to be honest, I’m not feeling so peachy yet. Yellow Eyes tore me up good, but the damn cops keep getting on my nerves. My injuries didn’t really get along with the story of the harmless hunting trip turned bad when some psycho-stranger came in, beat me up and shot Dad before fucking off again. Turns out you don’t get injuries like mine by being kicked into the stomach a few times, and the lack of psycho-stranger to be found doesn’t help. Not my best cover story, I admit, but the best I could come up that day, all doped up and in pain, ~~not to mention~~._

 _Should have just told them I didn’t remember anything. Oh well._

 _Anyway, I signed out AMA this morning and will be gone once my taxi shows up. I don’t know where the impala is, but no one mentioned a car full of weapons to me, so I guess Sam took it when he left. You know, at this point even that hardly matters anymore._

 _There’s so much I have to do. I need a car. I need to get my stuff back from the police. I need to steal Dad’s body so I can give him a proper burial._

 _I still feel like shit. I don’t think I can do this on my own._

 _But I have to._

 _Dean_

 _*-*-*-*_

 _Bobby,_

 _Been a while. I was pretty busy. And still feeling shitty enough that writing was too much of an effort. I had to create a new fake identity, for starters, and get my father’s body out of the morgue. Burned him three days ago._

 _A funny thing happened after I left the hospital: I was sitting in my taxi driving off the parking lot when I saw the impala parking there between the other cars. So I had the driver stop, ran over, and yeah, it was really my impala. Not that I doubted it – I would recognize her anywhere!_

 _So I sent the taxi on without me and drove off the grounds on my own. I don’t know how she got there. Scratch that – obviously, Sam left her there. What I don’t know is why. She must have been there for a week or more. So Sam dropped her at the hospital for me to find, but he never bothered to drop in himself and see how I’m doing._

 _Frankly, I’m confused. I don’t like being confused. But I’ve had time to think. And I think there’s something going on with Sam. What he did just doesn’t fit. He can be a stubborn, hot-headed moron, but he’s not a killer._

 _Doesn’t change the fact that he did it, or the fact that I’m never going to forgive him. The thing is, I can go on speculating about his reasons until the day I die, but I’ll never know for sure. Turns out, as much as I’d like to, I can’t stop thinking about it. I need answers. I need to find Sam and ask him why he did it. Don’t you agree that he fucking owes me an explanation?_

 _After that he can go jump off a cliff for all I care. I just want to hear him give me some reasons, so I can let it go._

 _Hell, maybe I just want to hear him say he’s sorry._

 _The problem? Sam’s not coming. I think that’s pretty clear. So I have to find him myself. Because I have nothing better to do than to chase my bitch of a little brother all across the country._

 _Sadly enough, I really don’t._

 _Now, Sam’s got a talent for dropping off the map. If he ever learned anything from Dad, it’s that. So I’d appreciate your help. If you hear anything, let me know! (Don’t worry, I don’t want to kill him. I just want to kick him in the ass.)_

 _Dean_

 _*-*-*-*_

 _Bobby,_

 _You were right about that Gordon guy. I paid him a visit in jail and he told me about the asshole who set him up and had him arrested. Kid used another name, but it was definitely Sam. Though, what he was doing there I can’t even guess. The way he got Gordon in jail seemed pretty determined to me, but as far as I can tell, he didn’t even know him. Gordon sure enough didn’t know Sam. He seems like a good hunter, though. No idea why Sam targeted him._

 _Think he might be after other hunters now?_

 _Okay, yeah, that doesn’t make sense. Unless he was possessed._

 _Think he might be possessed?_

 _That would make things a lot easier. But I don’t really think he is. Because he’s also hunting, it seems. The hunter that took care of that Rakshasa thing in Medford, Wisconsin was him, too. I didn’t believe it at first because the thing took the shape of a clown to hunt and you know how Sam is with clowns. One of the circus guys took a picture when Sam wasn’t looking, though, and it’s him, without a doubt._

 _Just showed up, stayed one day at the circus, the next day he’s gone and the Rakshasa is dead. I don’t even know how he got the idea to hunt there, because by the time the article about the family the thing killed was in the papers, Sam had already been there._

 _I’ve been trying to track him by looking for cases he might be interested in, but maybe I should be looking for weird murders._

 _Keep your eyes open, Bobby! And not just for things that are obviously supernatural._

 _And warn your hunter buddies someone might be after their asses._

 _Or maybe not. I don’t want anyone to kill him out of caution before I can talk to him._

 _Dean_

*-*-*-*

 

 

It was nearly dawn by the time Dean arrived in Cornwall, Connecticut. He was exhausted, and worst of all, he had that certain feeling that he was once again arriving too late.

One week ago, Sam had taken out a shape shifter in Milwaukee. This time, Dean had seen undeniable proof with his own eyes, for the first time not forced to merely rely on the recounting of others.

This time, the monster Sam was hunting was so kind as to target a bank, and Sam was so kind as to be clearly visible on the tapes made by the security cameras.

He was now also officially wanted for murder.

Figured. If someone was caught on camera while taking a perfectly harmless looking man into a back alley beside a bank, and that perfectly harmless looking person was later found dead in the same back alley, cops had the habit of jumping to conclusions. Dean probably would have jumped to the same conclusion, if he hadn’t been a hunter instead of the federal agent he pretended to be. As it was, before he jumped to any conclusions, he checked for teeth, claws, and finally tested the corpse with a silver knife.

Bingo.

If he was honest to himself he might have admitted to a certain relief at the discovery. Mostly, though, there was the question of how the heck Sam knew that guy was a shape shifter, or that there even was a shifter around. He checked every newspaper article of the past three months, and there was nothing indicating there was a case around here. Nothing at all.

 _It’s just plain weird,_ Dean had written in the letter to Bobby he’d sent before leaving town. _He keeps solving cases before they become cases. The only explanation I can come up with is he’s seen something happening in his visions._

He remembered in time that Bobby didn’t even know about the visions, but decided that he probably should be told everything there was to know about Sam if he was going to be any help in this. He’d probably be irritated about having been kept in the dark, but it couldn’t be helped.

Damn, it had been odd to see Sam again. Dean couldn’t even name the emotion that made his heart beat faster when he saw his little brother, all black and white and grainy, on the screen when watching the tapes. Sam was standing in front of the bank waiting, and he looked just like he always did: overgrown, with too long hair and jeans that threatened to fall off his hips.

 _I miss him,_ Dean had written in his letter that day, then crossed it out so many times the words became unrecognizable to anything less than higher technology.

Sam was there for two days. Just standing before the bank, sometimes wandering up and down, sometimes gone for a couple of minutes, probably to grab a snack or relieve himself. It seemed his vision – and what else could it have been? – wasn’t too accurate when it came to timing.

Eventually Sam disappeared around the corner with the shifter and came out alone. After that, job done, he just left.

Dean found the motel he had stayed in within half a day. Nice guy, the receptionist recalled. Good looking. Polite. Very quiet.

He travelled by hitchhiking, she said – found someone to take him along right before the motel. How very Sam. Dean nearly smiled at the information. In fact, he nearly grinned when the receptionist told him that she overheard which city Sam was aiming for.

And so Dean arrived in Cornwall hours and hours later, driving down the same street Sam passed days ago on the passenger seat of someone else’s car. He was tired, and his enthusiasm had long since died when he realised that he had no idea where in all this city Sam stayed, or what he came for. There had to be a reason for his coming since he didn’t appear to ever do anything just for fun, but the way he handled his cases with the advantage of premonition meant that his actions likely never made it to the local papers.

Unless he seemingly randomly killed someone again, that was.

Since he had to know the police was on the lookout for him he probably was even more careful than before. In the end the tiny glimpse of his brother the cameras had granted Dean did nothing to make his search any easier.

When he checked into a motel a little outside of town, he had no illusions that he would find Sam this time. What he could tell from his brother’s previous actions, judging by what little he knew about them, Sam had never stayed anywhere for longer than two nights even before he was wanted for murder. Obviously, it really helped with getting cases done Andover with quickly if one knew what to do from the beginning – which was just odd, once Dean stopped for a moment to think back to Sam’s visions and how vague they had been. How little time and opportunity they left them to actually do something about what they showed. And how long it still took them to figure out what exactly was going on.

There was only one possible explanation: Sam’s powers were getting stronger. It was a thought Dean didn’t like in the least.

Checking into the motel seemed wrong, somehow. The high speed his brother moved through jobs with barely allowed Dean any break and sleep seemed like a waste of time. Worse, it felt like something that would allow Sam to get even further away from him after he had only just managed to come closer. Eventually, though, Dean had to accept that his body had needs and needed at least a few hours of rest if he wanted to be up for clues-hunting the next day. So Dean buried his face in the pillow and listened to the silence in the room.

He was only just starting to get used to having a room of his own again.

The next day he went to the library for archives of the local newspapers of the past week, but didn’t find a single mention of someone suspicious or Sam-like in them, or of any weird occurrences, no matter how easily explained. In fact, the only thing worth mentioning at all in the paper that had happened around here recently was a fire in an old hotel about a week ago. No one had been hurt.

According to the article, a guest had discovered the fire and helped everyone get out in time. It wasn’t much to go on and could have been anyone, but it was the only thing even remotely worth looking into, so Dean scheduled a meeting with the hotel’s owner first thing after reading about it.

The owner was not what he expected, but better: a pretty woman named Susan who seemed pleasantly surprised by the alleged reporter’s interest in her hotel, instead of being unpleasantly irritated or annoyed. She agreed to meet Dean in the lobby of the hotel she had moved into with her daughter and her elderly mother after the fire.

“I grew up in that house,” she told Dean over her coffee, her eyes looking far away. “As a child, I could never imagine going anywhere else.”

“It must have been hard to lose it,” Dean said with an understanding nod.

“It was. But in the end it only sped up the inevitable. You see, business hasn’t been going well for a long time. Far too long – I had to sell the place anyway, and I don’t even know if the building would have been left standing. Actually, it was almost easier this way. I didn’t have to think about it all the time, fearing the moment of goodbye, you know? As it turned out, during the moment of goodbye, I was only thinking of getting out of there.”

“Do you know what caused the fire?”

“Faulty wiring, apparently.” Susan shuddered, a shadow falling over her face. “It happened in the room of the first guest we’ve had in weeks. If I think what might have happened if he’d been asleep, I feel sick.”

Dean’s attention was raised by a few notches. “It started in his room?”

“Yes, in the morning. My daughter had just left for school and I was in the kitchen downstairs with the housekeeper. Suddenly he comes running down the stairs, and he carries my mother in his arms. She had a stroke a while ago, can’t move or speak. I could see she was terrified, but before I could say anything, Mr. Terrance – that’s his name – Mr. Terrance told me there was a fire and we had to get out. That’s when I smelled the smoke.”

“I see. You were pretty lucky there.”

“You have no idea.” Susan’s face darkened at the memory. “My mother was upstairs in her room. I don’t know how he even knew she was there, but without him… By the time the fire fighters arrived, the entire house was in flames. But most of our personal stuff had already been moved to storage. We were a lot luckier than most other victims of house fires. We didn’t lose everything.” She smiled at Dean, and it looked genuine enough. “Most important, we’re all still alive.”

“That’s right,” Dean agreed, making some notes in his booklet. “Do you have any address for Mr. Terrance? A full name at least?”

“No, I don’t know where he lives. His first name was Eric, though. As I understood, he wanted to travel on later that day anyway. He was gone before I could even thank him for saving my mom.”

“Any idea where he went?”

Susan shook her head. “No. Sorry I can’t help you.”

“That’s okay,” Dean said, hiding his disappointment. It had been a long shot anyway. “You wouldn’t have a picture of him I could use for my article, would you?”

She laughed at that. “Of course not!”

“Of course.” Dean nodded. “Silly question. Well, would you mind describing him to me?”

Susan frowned a little, obviously not seeing the point, but willingly described a young man in his early- to mid-twenties, with longish dark hair, very tall, thin, a little tired looking. “Actually, I thought he was sick,” she admitted. “But I guess he just didn’t sleep very well. I heard him move around all night.”

Dean thanked her and drove back to his motel. Sam was gone from here. He had expected that. What he’d hoped for was an idea where Sam went next. Now that the trail was cold, Dean didn’t know what to do.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

 _Sam’s gone and I have no idea where to go next. The only thing I can tell for sure is that he doesn’t want to be found. Probably figures I’m pissed – rightfully so. He should just stop so we can get this over with and each go on our separate ways. Eventually he’ll have to grow tired of running, right?_

 _If he thinks I’m going to give up just because he makes it a little harder for me, he doesn’t know me very well after all._

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Dean stayed in Cornwall for two more days, looking for clues, asking around if anyone had seen Sam, if anyone knew where he’d gone. He tried the local diners, but no one recognized the man in his photos.

On the third day, Bobby left a message on his phone.

 _“Stop abusing me as your goddamn diary, idjit,”_ the older hunter’s gruff voice ordered. _“I ain’t no journal, and I sure as hell ain’t no priest.”_ Followed by, _“Call me. I’ve got something. If you want to hear about it, use your damn phone.”_

Dean hesitated before making the call since after all, it could be a trap. But Bobby kindly refrained from getting sentimental on him or trying to analyze his motives. He merely gave Dean the information he had and then sent him off to find his “goddamn idjit of a brother.”

And Dean did his best. Bobby’s directions led him to Rhode Island – to Providence to be exact, where a very irate priest met him at the church to tell him how the tomb of his predecessor had been desecrated not two days ago. Someone had broken into the church and performed some kind of satanic ritual down there, leaving bones and herbs all over the place. It was easy to recognize the stuff the priest described as ingredients for a summoning ritual. Likely it was Sam, but the old man hadn’t seen the culprit and even though right now Dean had trouble remembering it, other hunters did exist. If the murdered priest had gone evil spirit on this town, he might have attracted anyone.

Except that once again there was nothing about supernatural activities in the papers.

In fact, the only noteworthy occurrences around this town happened only after the church was broken into. The police got an anonymous tip that enabled them to arrest a man who had planned to abduct and murder a thirteen-years-old girl. Another anonymous tip brought them into the basement of another man where they found the body of a missing student buried under the floor. And a young man was arrested for the rape and murder of two women in other states after yet another anonymous tip to the police.

That last one happened only this morning.

Dean got very active when he found that out. He was in the Impala within seconds, driving down the street, then stopped and left his car half-hidden in an alley to hotwire another one when no one was looking. Sam didn’t want to be found, after all, and Dean’s car was not exactly easy to overlook.

For the first time Dean began to think about what he would do once he actually found Sam and took into consideration that he might be forced to beat Sam down first, and tie him up before they could have a conversation.

But first Dean had to find him. Sam was travelling by hitchhiking as usual, it seemed, so Dean would drive down the streets leading out of town in his unsuspicious car, hoping he would find his brother standing at the side of the road somewhere. Maybe Sam would even get in the car before he realised Dean was driving it, and then Dean would lock the doors and they would have their discussion on the highway. It would be better than the ties and the beating in any case – even though Sam really would have deserved that.

Naturally, the brilliant plan would only work if Sam’s visions didn’t warn him of Dean’s arrival.

Along the way, Dean stopped at every motel he found, went inside and showed Sam’s picture. After all, he didn’t know if Sam was done here already. Perhaps he could even surprise him in his bedroom.

…Even if that sounded slightly wrong.

He got lucky in the fourth motel he entered. The girl at the reception desk took one look at the photo, frowned, looked again, and then said, “Looks like the guy in number four. He’s a bit older, though. Hair’s longer, too. And he’s pretty thin.”

Close enough. But then – Dean was already turning to hurry to the room in question – she added, “He left this morning, I think.”

So much for being lucky.

Dean was back on the street within seconds and proceeded to search the city, desperately hoping that Sam had had a long breakfast in the diner around the corner this morning and then failed to find someone to take him along.

The hopes for that were slim. In fact, they were so slim that when he did see Sam, Dean nearly didn’t notice.

He had stopped at a traffic light at one of the busier crossroads and was watching the passing traffic when finally his brain registered the figure standing a dozen or so yards behind the traffic light. Good spot for hikers. The cars were all going in the right direction and there was a spot the potential drivers could stop at.

Dean stared at him for a while, his heart pounding in his throat and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, too tightly.

Sam was oblivious to his presence. There was a duffle by his side that, by the look of it, was at least half empty. He was too far away for Dean to make out all the details, but Dean could see that his brother had lost weight. Not much, but the clothes were hanging off his frame a little more, and there was a weary set to his shoulders, a lack of energy in his movements. He seemed to move only as much as he absolutely had to, only bothering to hold out his thumb when a car came closer.

The cars turning in from the left side were going past him now, and Dean hardly dared to breathe as he hoped none of them would stop and take his brother away from him again.

Sam didn’t seem to particularly think they would. He looked at them without expectation, cold wind blowing his hair into his face, the very picture of resigned patience. His eyes travelled further up the road without aim, until they stopped on Dean’s car.

Dean kept staring at Sam. He was far enough away, the sunlight reflected in the windshield and Sam wasn’t on the lookout for him. He shouldn’t have noticed who was sitting in this car, but he kept looking right at Dean.

Dean didn’t breathe.

Then Sam picked up his duffle and started running.

Dean curses and yelled and stepped on the accelerator. A second later he stomped on the breaks to avoid being hit by the cars that came from the left. A concert of angry horns sounded while Dean grinded his teeth and could only watch as Sam took a turn and disappeared between two buildings.

He didn’t wait until the signal was green but sped on the moment the cars rushing by gave him a chance to get through. More angry horns, and hopefully no police among them, because Dean was in a stolen car. He pulled said car to the side of the road only a hundred yards later anyway, to jump out and run down the alley Sam had chosen as if his life depended on it.

He didn’t waste his breath yelling for his brother. It was obvious that Sam didn’t want to talk to him.

The alley was long, turned around a corner and ended in a wall. A dead end and no trace of Sam.

Dean didn’t hesitate for one second but used his speed to run up the wall and grab the edge to pull himself on top of it. He jumped down on the other side and kept running.

The alley on the other side of the wall was a lot shorter and led to one of the main streets. Dean stopped at the end, looked left and right, but Sam was already out of sight.

As soon as he got his breath back Dean cursed for a full minute.

He didn’t dare walk back to the stolen car, instead taking the bus to the station closest to the motel. All the way, his mind was racing, trying to figure out what Sam would do now.

What would his little brother do?

He would make sure to get away as quickly as possible, that was what. He wouldn’t risk standing by the side of the road, though, so he would either jump into the nearest bus out of town or steal a car.

Before the bus even reached his stop, Dean knew that Sam opted for the stolen car this time. Even if a bus happened to stop right before his eyes just now, Dean would be able to see where the latest long-distance bus was going. A stolen car probably wouldn’t be noticed for another few hours, and by then Sam would long since have ditched it and moved on to god knows where.

Which meant that Dean wouldn’t be able to start the hunt before a car that seemed likely (or especially unlikely) to be Sam’s choice had been first reported stolen and then found. As soon as they found it, Dean would know Sam’s next stop, but by then his brother would be long gone.

Then, of course, there was the issue of how to get information on stolen cars. Dean might not have missed Sam (very much) but sometimes he did miss his magical laptop that seemed able to get them any information they wanted if Sam was the one using it.

It wasn’t until evening, in some shady-looking internet-café, that Dean found out that within walking distance of where he chased Sam only one car had been stolen that day. By that time the car in question had already been found undamaged by the side of the road in Johnston. Dean left at once, but when finally got to Johnston Sam was somewhere else and the trail had gone cold once again.


	2. Chapter 2

It was in Indiana that Dean met the guys. ‘The guys’ were two strange men, one old and balding, the other younger and tiny. He met the old one first. He sat down at Dean’s table in a bar, uninvited and seemingly coming out of nowhere. Dean glared at him and considered punching him in the face, because he was invading his personal space and he looked unbearably smug about his own existence. On top of that, Dean had just learned that he had missed his brother once again. Also? One of the women Dean interviewed on his missing brother turned out to be a girlfriend of Dean’s from nine years ago, and she had a son who’d be turning eight in a couple of weeks, and no matter what Lisa told him about the kid’s dad being some biker from some bar, it kind of freaked him out.

And now there was this guy, Mr. Smuggy McSmug-Smug, who sat down beside him like an old friend and smugged right into Dean’s face with his smug face.

“What?” Dean growled. “I’m really not in the mood-”

“I have been looking for you,” the man told him.

Dean groaned. “You’re not my type.”

“Let me say that again: I have been looking for you, Dean Winchester. Unfortunately I have been looking in the wrong place. Well, to be entirely accurate, I have been looking in the right place, only to find you are in the wrong one. But let’s not waste time with details.”

Dean stared at him. For all of half a second. Then his hand flew to his gun – only to find it was gone.

Smugface smirked at him and held up the gun without even attempting to shield it from the eyes of the other people in the room. Even though at least one of them looked directly at them, no one seemed bothered by it at all. “If it’s any consolation, this wouldn’t do anything but cause a scene.”

“Who are you?” Dean asked. “You know, never mind that. _What_ are you?”

“My name is Zachariah,” Smugface said despite Dean’s declared disinterest in his name. “I’m an angel.”

“Sure you are.”

Zachariah let out a long-suffering sigh. “I could prove it to you, but this is hardly the right place for religious revelations. Just take my word for it. Or don’t. Actually, I don’t really give a shit what you believe.”

Some words for an angel.

“Okay, identity issues aside, what do you want from me?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Oh, right. You know where my brother is?”

Zachariah snorted. “Believe me, Dean, _your_ brother is the last of my interests. He could be lying dead in a dumpster for all I care. No, I am here to help you fulfil your destiny. And for that, you don’t need Sam. Not yet.”

Dean’s gaze went past the stranger to the door, looking for the shortest way out. This guy was seriously creepy.

“Okay, gramps, I bet you expect me to be all ears about that supposed destiny of mine now, but all I want is for you to stay far away from me and my brother before I hand your ass to you on a silver platter.” Actually, Dean would hunt this supposed angel down anyway, because the last thing his family needed now was an evil supernatural stalker.

Smugface only smiled at him, if possibly looking even smugger than a second before. “I would love to see you try,” he said. “And with what,” he added, reminding Dean that he stole his gun without Dean even noticing. “But before you do and risk hurting yourself, let’s put aside the fact that you are a microbe with the temper of a five-year-old and talk business.”

“Not interested.” Dean tried to stand, but before he could even move, Zachariah placed a hand on his thigh and held him down with surprising and unsettling strength.

“We’re not done yet,” he said calmly.

Dean tried again, but found he couldn’t even get his ass off the seat. It dawned on him that he was in a hostage situation with himself as the hostage, and that he needed to adapt his plan accordingly.

So instead of jumping up and making a dignified run for the door, he leaned back in his chair and glared at the stranger. “What business do we have, then?”

“Would you like to have your father back?”

Dean froze. His fingers twitched for his absent gun. “Not funny, man. Not funny at all.”

“Really? I thought you loved him. But if you prefer him burning in hell…”

“In hell?” Dean’s fingers curled into a fist. “Bullshit. Why would he be in hell?”

“Demon possession,” Zachariah said matter-of-factly. “You see, that’s what happens if your soul is attached to a demon when you die: it pulls you down. And there’s no hope of ever getting out. By the way, Dean, do you know how demons come to be in the first place?”

Dean didn’t want to ask, but the question forced itself out through his gritted teeth. “What do you mean?”

“What, you think they have demon-sex and produce little demon babies? Only one of the two, Dean. All demons – _all_ demons! – used to be humans, once. You see, hell is no walk in the park. They torture the humanity out of you quickly enough, and then you become just like them.”

Dean stared at the stranger, not following where this was going, but not liking it in the least.

Zachariah gave him a look of fake sympathy. “Okay, I admit, I wasn’t completely honest with you. Your father might come out again, one day. But by then he’ll be one of the things you hunt, possessing some innocent bastard, raping, maiming and killing to his black heart’s content, until someone sends him back to hell. Maybe you, Dean. Think you can send dear Daddy back down to the pit for another round of torture before he climbs out _again_?”

He hadn’t spoken the last word before Dean’s hands closed around the lapels of his shirt and he hissed in his face, “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, asshole, but it’s not going to work. I _burned_ my father. He’s gone!”

“You really think hell cares about your little campfire?” Zachariah asked with obvious amusement in his voice. “You merely denied him the possibility of lingering in this world in order to postpone his eternal suffering.”

He was talking bullshit, of course. Dean knew that, but a tiny little part of him formed into a cold, slimy ball inside his stomach and asked ‘What if…?’

“Even if it were true, why tell me this?” he snapped. “You tryin’ to say it’s my destiny to kill him again?”

“Not at all.” Zachariah shook his head, still looking like he was about to fall over and roll though the room laughing. “It’s your destiny to get him out.”

“How so?”

“Why, by taking his place, or course.”

Dean froze. “Take his place? As in, go to hell? Become a demon?”

“Something along those lines. Except I can promise you that you will be freed before you can break. We, the angels, will pull you out.”

“Oh, of course. And why won’t you just go in and save my dad?”

“You believe me, then?”

Dean couldn’t help but feel Zachariah was trying to put words into his mouth and probably his mind as well. “Just answer the damn question!”

The asshole let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he couldn’t believe he had to explain this. “Because you would be going down voluntarily, as a heroic sacrifice. It would leave a door open for us to reach you.”

“Okay, let’s pretend for a moment that I believe you. Why would heaven be interested in saving my dad?”

“Oh, it isn’t. This is all about you, Dean. You have this great destiny waiting for you, but in order to fulfil it, you need to get the start right. Saving your dad in the process is really just a bonus, but I thought you might find it a suitable motivation.”

“Fuck off.” Dean stood, and this time Zachariah didn’t hold him back. “You think I’m buying any of this? Destiny my ass! You’re just another dick with psychic powers waiting to get his ass kicked, and wherever my dad ended up, it’s certainly not hell.”

“You’re willing to risk that?” Zachariah asked. He didn’t bother to stand, nor did he make any move to stop Dean as he walked away. “Don’t forget your gun,” he called after him, and when Dean instinctively reached for it his fingers closed around the familiar weight beneath his belt.

He didn’t draw, only turned around and walked away, already trying to figure out how to kill this one.

Too bad Sammy wasn’t here. He was always so good at figuring out things like that…

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he heard Zachariah’s voice just before he reached the door. “Here’s something to think about: Remember Meg, that demon you send back to hell? Well, she’s down there with your dad, and she’s very, very pissed…”

The door shut behind him. Outside, Dean was greeted by cool air and silence.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

The second guy Dean met only minutes after the first one, outside the bar, when he was still fuming and his heart still whispered that Zachariah – so that actually was his name – knew far too much about Dean and his family to be wrong about _everything_. The second guy stepped out behind a duster and said, “Howdy.”

He was a good bit smaller than Dean and had longish hair like Sam. Dean nearly shot him in the face. He was thinking about it, anyway.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snapped.

“Me? Oh, I’m a friend of old Zach in there.” The man grimaced. “Well, I say friend. Let’s make that acquaintance. Distant relative. Anyway, I hate his guts.”

“That why you’re trying to annoy me like him?”

“In a way.” The guy shrugged and pulled something from his pocket. Dean tensed and was in the process of reaching for his gun when he saw it was merely a lollipop. The stranger unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. “Actually, I meant to be nice. You know, be all comforting and let you know that your daddy is safe and in heaven with your mom. Nothing to worry about, and most certainly nothing to sell your soul for.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, suddenly pissed off more than anything. “Why is everyone suddenly interested in my soul?”

“Oh, because it’s meant for great things, depending on who you ask.” The guy was kind of hard to understand with the candy in his mouth, though he had obviously learned to talk around it. “Not that Zach cares. He’s just trying to save his ass because it’s his job to make sure things go according to the script and the script went up in smoke.”

“What script? What are you talking about?” Dean snorted and then turned away. “You know, never mind. Play your games without me. Because whatever either of you says, I’m not believing any of it.”

“If one of us says your daddy is in hell and the other says he isn’t, one of us has to be right.”

Smartass. “What’s it to you?” Dean was already on the way to his car, all too happy to put as many miles between this place and himself as possible.

“Nothing much. Actually, I came here to get away from this whole issue. But then – bam! – I ran into your little Sammy the other day.”

Dean froze. “You what?”

“Well, actually, he ran into me, and not by accident. There I was, just about to start my new job as a janitor, and he comes at me with holy oil and a lot of inventive threats. Which was quite interesting, if a little disturbing.” He pulled the lollipop from his mouth with a pop. “As it happens, I like interesting people. And as for the disturbing part… what can I say? It’s a kink.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean made a move toward the stranger, but before he got further than one step, a sudden, blinding white light fell through the window of the bar. Dean covered his eyes for a second, and when he could see again, he heard a stern, rough voice say, “Gabriel! Stay away from them!”

Dean turned around to see Guy Number Three stand beside his car. Guy Number Three was taller than Guy Number Two, had shorter hair and was wearing a trench coat that made him look like he was cosplaying as Columbo. He was staring at the one with the candy, never so much as sparing Dean a glance.

Weirdly enough, all Dean thought for a moment was that the day had started so normal. Weirdly averted case, possible fatherhood, no Sam. And now this.

He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was missing something.

“Hey, no need to get territorial,” the small one said. “But don’t you think you were overreacting just a little bit in there? Okay, Zachariah was a dick and had it coming, but you’re hardly…” His eyes narrowed as he took another look at the newly arrived guy. “You’re different. Definitely more juice than you ought to have, and not from around here. Which – oh!” His face broke into a delighted smile. “Which explains so much! And here I thought Dean was the guy to come to for answers. But Dean has no idea, am I right?”

“No. And it’s going to stay that way.”

Dean would have liked to get an idea. He was going to say so, too, but apparently Columbo decided to have this conversation somewhere else, because he took hold of the other’s shoulder and a second later they were just gone.

If he hadn’t known better, Dean would have sworn he heard the flapping of wings.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

The light hurt. Dean rolled over and draped his arm over his eyes, wishing for the day to be over and night to come. His head was pounding, and when the call of nature forced him to leave the bed, he found that his whole body felt like it was made of rubber. Stumbling to the bathroom, he racked his brain for information on the night before and some clues about the reason why he had felt the need to get so terribly drunk.

It probably had something to do with Sam.

Sam never had a headache when he was hung-over. He just threw up a lot.

Slowly, it came back to him. Lisa and her son, and Sam being gone and having left no trace. Lisa had seen him, though. He was there, talked to her about Dean, told her Dean might drop in sometime soon. Lisa had been looking forward to seeing him again. She looked great and had had been disappointed he had to leave so soon, but Dean couldn’t let Sam get too far away.

And Ben. The right age to be Dean’s son, which had freaked him out. Enough to drink himself into oblivion? Not likely, but if there was anything else, it was gone.

The entire end of the night was gone.

At least Dean had woken up alone. He rarely got laid these days – would have been a shame to get lucky and then not remember.

Maybe he tried, got turned down, got plastered. Maybe he just felt like getting plastered for no specific reason at all.

Chasing Sam was a frustrating business.

And fruitless.

Lisa had said Sam looked sick. Thin and tired, worn. Good, Dean remembered thinking. He couldn’t run much further, then, and Dean was very pointedly not worried.

Falling back into bed and sleeping until it was night again sounded tempting, but Dean couldn’t remember how long he had the room. Also, he needed to make sure his car hadn’t been towed. He was pretty certain he left it at the bar because even if he didn’t remember, he knew himself well enough to say for sure that he didn’t drive when he was completely plastered.

Things got even better: While in the shower, Dean discovered that he’d also gotten a tattoo. Apparently. Because there it was, on his chest: a repelling symbol often used in wards against demons.

Now, that was not worst kind of tattoo for a hunter to get. But it was definitely something he should remember having done.

Funny enough, the tattoo was basically the only part of his body that didn’t feel sore. Dean had never gotten a tattoo before, but he was pretty certain there was something wrong with that.

By the time he got out of the shower, Dean was thoroughly freaked out. It got worse when he looked out of the window and saw the Impala in the motel parking lot. For a minute, he could only stare at her, desperately looking for memories that were simply lost.

Perhaps someone had driven him here. It was an explanation, but he didn’t like it. He would walk for hours before he let some stranger drive his car and the bar wasn’t that far away.

Funny that he remembered _that_.

Lost, Dean looked around the room for clues. A bra would have been a good clue. But there was none. Just his dirty clothes strewn about, empty take-out boxes, a stack of paper. Dean flipped through them and found a letter to Bobby he had started, slipped between some magazines as if he’d been trying to hide it.

Dean didn’t remember writing it.

 _Bobby,_ he read, _I have no idea what’s going on here, but it’s freaky. Met some guys in a bar tonight who claimed to be angels. Looked like humans, but disappeared from one moment to the next. One of them looked like Columbo and killed one of the others, and when the guy died some kind of light exploded out of him. Guests at the bar told me about the murder - I didn’t see it happen myself, but I saw the light and the corpse. The guy – introduced himself as Zachariah – left dark shadows the shape of wings burned into the floor beneath him when he snuffed it._

 _That ring any bells? I need to know more about them – mainly, how to kill them. Because they know more about me – about my family than I’d like. They kept ta_

The letter ended right there, and Dean was overcome with the memory of sitting at the table writing, and then something disturbing him. Yes, yes – there had been someone at the door, and Dean put some magazines on top of the letter before he opened with the gun in his hand and…

And in came the guy in the trench coat. Dean remembered now – the bar. That weird conversation. Columbo and Lollipop and Smugface.

The guy in the trench coat standing behind him all of a sudden, saying, “Stop looking for Sam,” and “Be happy,” and “Forget.” Then, before Dean could react, a hand pressed to his forehead and after that nothing.

Dean came back to the present with the words “Son of a bitch!” ringing in his ears. He stared down at the crumpled piece of paper lying at his feet.

He’d always known his letters to Bobby would come in handy one day.

One minute later he was stuffing his clothes into his duffle, a stream of curses falling from his lips. Whatever was going on here, he wouldn’t let the trench coated asshole get away with it. First of all he was going to find Sam, just out of spite.

Of course, he had no clue where to start looking. Sam hadn’t left a trace, no hint where he was going. All Dean could do was read the papers and hope Bobby would hear something.

At least they knew what to look for by now.

He called Bobby to tell him what had happened. Bobby didn’t know anything about the “angels” either, but he promised to look it up. He didn’t even complain about Dean calling him at half past seven in the morning, which told Dean a lot about how much this worried his old friend.

“Let me know if you hear about anything that sounds like Sam.” It was the same way he always ended their conversations, but this time Dean added, “And… check the hospitals as well.”

He cut off the call before Bobby could ask about that and threw the phone on the passenger seat where his brother used to sit. The road flew by as Dean was going nowhere far too fast, not knowing what to do but unable to do nothing until he figured it out.

He wished his dad was there to tell him to calm the fuck down and think before running blindly.

But he wasn’t. And telling his self just wasn’t the same.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

It was the hospital check that brought Dean a step closer to his brother the next time, but that was months and months later with few traces in between, all of them dead ends. By the time he got the call, Dean had been chasing Sam for so long that his initial reaction to the news was worry (like a punch to the stomach, like failure) instead of satisfaction. In the beginning, he might have thought that a trip the ER was a small price to pay for his father’s death; at the very least he would have been grateful for the information. Now, Dean was still grateful because a trace was a trace, but also concerned because a little brother in the hospital was never a good thing.

When Dean got to Nebraska, naturally, Sam was gone again. The hospital staff refused to give him any information because Ted McMorris didn’t have any living relatives Dean could pretend to be, but he was at least able to find out who brought him there.

It was a young family who was just about to move into their new home when this tall, skinny guy showed up and told them there were two murderous kids living under the house and moving between the walls. Naturally, they didn’t believe him. Naturally, Sam showed up again when the kids in question were in their living room about to carve up the husband.

He knocked out the dirty, malnourished and bat shit crazy young woman but got into a brief fight with the guy – her brother, as the police found out later. Sam ultimately won, but got hurt in the process. Not bad – just a deep cut to his arm. He definitely had worse. What made the family’s mother rush him to the hospital was that after tying up the homicidal siblings, Sam collapsed and started seizing, freaking everyone out because they thought the blade that hurt him had been poisoned or something along those lines. He passed out afterwards, and instead of waiting for the police to arrive, they bundled him into the car and drove him two miles to the local hospital.

Sam woke up only minutes after arriving, saying something about a chronic disorder that was nothing to worry about. When the family he’d saved came back the next day to check on him, he had already signed out against medical advice and taken off, no doubt rushing to the next miraculous rescue.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Dean had started writing letters much more obsessively after the events in Indiana, and Bobby had stopped complaining about them. Dean also kept copies of everything he wrote hidden in his duffel like a secret journal, in case anyone ever tried to wipe his memories again.

No one did, and neither Columbo nor the janitor of evil showed up again. Sam didn’t either, but Dean kept looking, and in the end he didn’t need Bobby to pick up the trail again.

It was a tiny little article in an online newspaper that caught his eye: a bus driver lamented the loss of a book he kept in his bus, which had been broken into the day before. The loss was only tragic because he had a lock of his dead son’s hair hidden inside, to keep it close. Naturally, that got Dean’s attention: hair meant DNA which meant something for ghosts to hold on to.

What also got his attention was the name of the school the bus was going to. Dean and Sam had attended classes there, once, for a month, a long time ago.

The article was recent when Dean found it and he managed to reach the school only a day later, around noon, on streets that were wet from rain. Since the bus had been broken into at night and there had been no other weird happenings around, Dean didn’t think that Sam had shown his face to anyone. He still ran through the corridors with his brother’s photo in his hands, asking around. To his considerable surprise he got lucky.

It was a Mr. Wyatt who recognized the man in the picture. Told Dean that he used to be in his English class in 1997 and that he remembered him well due to a horror story the boy wrote instead of the assigned non-fictional report. And just yesterday he dropped in for a moment after class to tell his former teacher how much the advice he’d once given the boy had meant to him.

“I told him to follow his own goals instead of letting himself be pushed into a role that only serves the interests of other people,” he said when Dean asked. “Up to that point no one had ever bothered to ask what _he_ wanted to do with his life.”

Dean’s stomach clenched at that with something that was maybe anger, maybe not. Before he could say anything, Wyatt added, “It didn’t do him any good, though. Told me he still ended up in the family business, and… Well, he didn’t look…” He sighed and leaned back against his desk. “It’s a shame, actually. He had such potential.”

 _You have no idea_ , Dean thought. “He didn’t look what?”

“He looked sick. Thin, exhausted. I think he might have been on drugs. Whatever choices he made for his life, they are destroying him now. That much is obvious.” He seemed genuinely upset about that.

“Well, I’ve come to save him,” Dean declared. “That’s why I’m looking for him. I’m his brother.”

“Oh.” Wyatt looked at him with new interest. “I remember – you were basically the hero of that werewolf essay. Kid seemed to think you were the best thing that ever happened to this planet.”

Dean’s stomach clenched some more. “And you sure don’t know where he was going?”

“No, he didn’t say. But he can’t have gone far. The roads were closed until this morning because of the storm.”

Dean was out a second later, overcome by the need to _act_. Thinking was overrated. He could think on the way outside.

What it came down to was once again searching the roadside for any unlucky hitchhikers and the motels for any information on where Sam might have stayed and gone.

After such a long stretch of bad luck, he was pretty surprised when he not only found Sam’s motel but also that he hadn’t checked out yet. Getting the room number out of the receptionist wasn’t hard, and one minute later Dean was standing in front of Sam’s door, his heart pounding like crazy while he picked the lock as quietly as possible.

He was breaking into the room of a hunter. The chances of getting shot in the head were high, but this was Sam, who was all about ‘Ask questions first, then let the fucker get arrested.’ Dean still stepped aside until the door was all the way open, not particularly fond of the potential hit to the head.

Nothing happened, and when Dean stepped inside, he found the room empty. Crushing disappointment was his initial reaction, but then he noticed the duffel standing beside the bed, the laptop sitting on the table. So either Sam was hiding in the bathroom, or was just gone for the moment and would come back.

Probably. Unless a vision warned him last minute and he didn’t have time to pack. But even then, he’d probably have grabbed his laptop.

A look in the bathroom confirmed that it was empty, and it had no window to escape through either. Dean decided to wait.

He made use of the opportunity to look around the room and the duffel, trying to figure out what his brother had been doing in all the fucking time without Dean when he wasn’t hunting things or saving people. The answer was apparently not much. There was not a single piece of personal belonging in the duffel or the room, not even a book. Just the laptop. So maybe that was what Sam did all day. Surfing the internet. Nothing wrong with that.

He couldn’t live just for the hunt. Not Sam. Not even Dad had been entirely capable of that.

Dean found a small, almost empty box of pills in the duffel and another one, with different pills, in a drawer of the nightstand. Both boxes were unmarked.

Sam kept a journal but there was almost nothing in it. Only the first few pages were filled. All Sam had written on them, however, was a list. Names, places, dates. Some underlined, most crossed out, the latest ones unmarked. Looking the list over, Dean recognized some names, like _Milwaukee, shape shifter, February 2007_ , or _Pierponc Inn, Cornwall (Conneticut), ghost_ , or _Cicero, Indiana, changelings, May 2007 (Lisa)_.

The list went on, beyond the present date. The latest date Dean read was January 2012.

His next step was turning on the laptop, which fortunately was only on stand-by. Sam had a browser window open, displaying an unfinished email to a woman called Kate Milligan. Reading through the attached history, Dean found out that she’d known his dad and knew about ghosts, demons and, most of all, ghouls. In his first mail, Sam had introduced himself as an old friend of John Winchester and told her of his death (heroic, went down in a blaze of glory) before warning her that the kids of some ghouls John had killed in Kate’s neighbourhood ages ago were now out for revenge. Why they would go after this woman remained a mystery to Dean, but she accepted the warning and let Sam know that her and her son had relocated to another state without letting anyone know where they’d gone. In her latest mail she asked Sam when he would take care of the ghouls so they could return home, and Sam was in the progress of answering that he was on his way, just got held up by the weather.

Dean checked the list in the journal again, and sure enough there she was. Kate and Adam Milligan, Windom, Minnesota, Spring 2009. A red circle was drawn around that point. Probably meant “Work in Progress”.

There certainly was more interesting stuff on the laptop, but as Dean sat down to look through the files, he couldn’t help but think that maybe this was too much of a breach of privacy. He leaned back for a second, took a deep breath and frowned when he became aware that that was an odd realisation to have after he had just broken into his brother’s room and was looking through his life.

A life sadly lacking anything worth living for. Dean suddenly felt ashamed, which was idiotic considering he never had any problem going through Sam’s stuff when they had still been together and as happy as they ever were.

And then Dean only felt weary. Weary and tired. It had been so long. He just wanted to see his brother again and finally get this over with.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

When Sam finally got back, he opened the door with his key and never seemed to notice that someone had broken in. He just stepped in, closed and locked the door before dropping a shopping bag to the floor by the desk and shuffling over to the bed, his feet barely leaving the ground as he walked. Dean half expected him to fall face down on the mattress and pass out (or die), but Sam only sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands for a long moment, slumped shoulders, bent forward. Dean could hear him breathing all the way in the back of the room, evenly, deeply, too loud.

A year seemed to pass before he finally lifted his head, turned and saw Dean standing not ten feet away, between the bathroom and the microwave. He stopped moving then, just stared, wide-eyed and pale.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said.

Something seemed to leave Sam that moment. His shoulders slumped even more; his whole body seemed to sink inwards. Maybe he thought about running, but if he did, he never tried. “Hey Dean,” he said tiredly. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s been _three fucking years_!” Dean suddenly yelled, the outburst a long, long time coming yet surprising even himself. “I’ve been chasing your sorry ass for years, you dick! Ever since you murdered Dad and left me bleeding out in that cabin, and I’d punch you in the face if I didn’t think that might actually kill you!”

It was a justified caution. Sam looked terrible; thin and pale as paper, with bruised looking eyes and sharp lines in his face that weren’t there when Dean last saw him. His hair was unwashed and hung in his face in too-long strands. He hadn’t shaved in days.

This wasn’t the Sam Dean knew. Dean’s Sam had always made sure to be clean no matter how dirty their home of the moment. Dean’s Sam had bitched if their clothes hadn’t been washed in a week. Dean’s Sam would have risen to Dean’s anger, instead of blinking slowly at him and saying, “You weren’t supposed to follow me.”

And didn’t that just take the cake. After everything he put Dean through, this was all Sam had to say to him? Dean very nearly punched him after all. Instead he crossed his arms before his chest and let something inside him turn to stone. “Well, I did.”

Sam exhaled slowly, a conscious act that didn’t take away any of the tension that was barely visible in the set of his shoulders, the thin line at the corner of his mouth. “Leave me alone, Dean. Please, just go.”

“Go?” Dean echoed incredulously. “Go _where_ , exactly? There _is_ nowhere to go, little brother – not since you took everything away from me. So please tell me why you are under the impression that what _you_ want matters in the least! You have _no_ right to ask _anything_ of me!”

Sam didn’t react to the sharp tone. “Why are you even here?” he asked tiredly. “Of all placed to be…”

“I was looking for you, you dimwit!”

“But why? I killed dad. I abandoned you. What could you possibly hope to get from me?”

“Well, an explanation would be nice for starters,” Dean snapped. “I’ve been trying to figure out what was going on in that freaky head of yours and I’ve got nothing. So tell me, just so I can put it to rest and move on. You owe me that much.”

Sam looked at him as if Dean was speaking a foreign language. Not a language Sam didn’t understand, of course, but one he was surprised Dean had mastered. Dean sneered at him. “Also, after everything you did, giving you a good beating was a driving factor as well.”

“Go ahead, beat me up then,” Sam said without passion or energy. “If it makes you leave, I don’t mind.”

“That kinda takes the fun out of it, don’t you think? How about you just tell me why you fucked off without a word and we’ll see if that’s good enough?”

Sam looked away, sat still for a long time as he stared at nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and rough. “I hate you,” he said.

“Yeah, you’ve been telling me that since you were five.”

“No, Dean.” Now Sam looked at him, his eyes dark and gleaming in the dim light. “I _hate_ you. You and Dad. My whole life you’ve forced me to live as _you_ have wanted me to. And when I finally got away, when I had something _good_ with Jessica, you came and destroyed everything. I’ve hated you ever since you pulled me out of that fire, Dean. You were just so happy to drag me back into your world. I bet you were glad Jess was gone.”

Dean could only stare. He couldn’t believe Sam the words that were spewing out of Sam’s mouth. After everything, after imagining their reunion so many times when he was lying awake in yet another empty motel room, this was what he got.

“I wanted to get rid of your clingy ass so many times,” Sam went on without mercy. “But the opportunity never came up. And then Dad came back. Then the demon… I could finally get Jess’ killer, and that I had to kill Dad to do so? That was a fucking _bonus_! And after that I only had to leave. I was finally free of Dad, of you. To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t have shed a tear if you’d died there, Dean. You ruined my life. You took _everything_ from me – do you have any idea how hard it was to bear your presence every day? To act like I didn’t wish you had died instead of Jess? That’s why I left without even seeing if you pulled through. I just didn’t give a fuck.” He laughed, rough and bitter. “That good enough for you?”

One second later he was falling off the bed and Dean’s hand hurt from the force of the blow. For a long moment Dean stood over him, breathing hard and staring down at the pathetic pile of human at his feet, who pushed himself up on his arms but made no move to defend himself.

Then he left.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Maybe somewhere deep inside, Dean had harboured the hope that once he got a hold of Sam they could work things out and everything would be as it was before. But if he did, he never admitted it to himself, and now was the worst possible moment to acknowledge that after years of being alone and so much justified anger: he still couldn’t imagine living without his brother.

If Sam needed any confirmation of just how pathetic Dean was, this was it.

It made the words hurt all the more. It made Dean drive blindly, too fast, as if he could outrun the empty pain and furious humiliation that ate away his insides and poisoned every thought. Every memory.

Dean had known that he needed Sam more than Sam needed him. He’d never suspected _this_.

Sam didn’t care about him. Sam had hated him all the time. Everything Dean had held dear in his heart was a lie.

He had nothing.

The street before him blurred. Dean wiped at his eyes angrily and stepped on the accelerator. Damn, but Sam knew how to get to him. If he’d wanted to make sure Dean left and never thought fondly of him again, he did a damn good job of it.

The wheels left a trail of rubber on the asphalt as Dean stepped on the breaks.

“That little bitch!” he screamed at the cloudless sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was gone by the time Dean reached the motel. That was okay, though – Dean knew where the bane of his existence was headed, after all. Fortunately, in regard to Dean, Sam’s psychic abilities seemed to be blind.

Finding out the exact address of the Milligans in Windom wasn’t hard. Dean reached the city at night. A search through the local motels told him that his brother hadn’t checked into any of them, but he found the old, green Sedan that had been reported as stolen after his meeting with Sam parked at the side of the road not far from the Milligans’ empty house the next day.

Dean waited outside, never even attempting to conceal his presence. It didn’t take long, in the end, for Sam to emerge and come back to the car. He had washed his hair and shaved, but he still looked like shit warmed over.

Maybe he actually looked worse, and not only because of the bruise blooming on his left cheek.

He saw Dean immediately, stopped and froze for a moment, then he walked towards his stolen car as if nothing had happened, his expression blank.

“No one home, I gather?” Dean asked. “You find those ghouls yet?”

Sam looked at him, face still blank. He didn’t look guarded. He looked like he was too tired to form an expression. “You read my mail.”

“Yeah. So, those ghouls…”

“Weren’t there, but I found traces of them under the house. Shouldn’t be too hard to track them down.”

“Good. You’re going tomorrow?”

“Tonight.”

Dean grimaced. “If you go tonight, they’ll kill you. Sleep might be a good idea first. And food.”

Instead of replying, Sam pulled open the door of the Sedan. Dean never gave it a chance to open more than a crack before he pushed it closed. “Get in the Impala,” he ordered.

Sam looked at him, at his car, at the Impala and then down the street. He seemed to weigh his options. Dean waited impatiently until Sam reached the conclusion that in his current state he had no hope of getting away.

Eventually, Sam grabbed his duffel and the bag containing his laptop from the trunk and got in the Impala. Dean watched him sink into the passenger seat and close his eyes.

“Where’s your motel?” he asked a minute later, after starting the car.

“Don’t have one,” Sam muttered.

“You got here yesterday.”

“Slept in the car.”

Dean frowned in disapproval. He’d slept in the car as well, but that was a different matter – if only because he was older, and maybe because his little brother looked like he really needed a bed.

Without a word he drove over to one of the motels he had checked for Sam the night before. It was one of the better ones, but Dean had some money left. Being constantly on the lookout didn’t leave much time for indulging himself.

He made Sam come along when he got the room, in case his brother got the idea that Dean would certainly give up on him if he stole his car. Sam didn’t protest, didn’t say anything at all. When they entered the room he stood beside the door, looking lost.

“So,” Dean prompted. “Visions, huh?”

Sam blinked at him.

“They’ve been getting stronger?”

“I haven’t had a vision in years,” Sam told him. “Not since Azazel died.”

“Azazel?”

“The demon.”

Demons had names. Who would’ve thought?

“How did you find all those cases, then?”

“What are you doing here, Dean?” Sam asked tiredly. “I told you-”

“You told me a lot of bullshit. I have no idea why you’re trying to push me away, but it’s not working, so you can spill it now. Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Well, you look like you are. When’s the last time you had a break? Or ate, for that matter?”

“The only trouble I’ve had was you,” Sam explains without force. “Hard to get a break with you constantly on my trail.”

“I lost your trail for _weeks_ at a time. Don’t give me that crap!”

Sam looked helpless. Pleading. “Go away, Dean,” he begged, desperation finally bringing some life to his voice. “There’s nothing I can give to you. _Nothing_ at all!”

“Okay, calm down, dude.” Dean lifted his hands and took a step back when it looked like Sam was going to have a hysterical breakdown at any moment. Maybe he would cry. Sammy was prone to crying, and Dean couldn’t stand that. “You know what, I’m starving. So I’m gonna order takeout now, and we’ll talk after you had a nap.”

There was no protest, no reply at all. Dean made the call to a little fast food place just around the corner that promised to have the food delivered in less than ten minutes. Afterwards, Dean wasted a few of those minutes trying to get Sam away from the door, hoping that would make him look less ready to bolt. With some effort, he eventually managed to make his brother stand beside the bed instead, though he wouldn’t sit down on it. Sam’s hands were trembling, he noticed, then he thought of the pills he’d found in the duffle and of Wyatt’s suspicion.

“You on drugs?” he asked.

“I thought we were going to postpone the conversation.”

“Yeah, alright. Just answer the question, bitch.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Okay.” Dean wished the delivery boy would hurry up. “Are you lying to me?”

Sam glared at him through the strands of hair that had fallen into his face. “What the hell do you want from me, jerk?”

Finally, a sign of life. Dean almost grinned. It would have been inappropriate in the face of the topic and the general tension, but he felt like grinning anyway. He had his brother back. After three years of searching without pause, there he was, in the flesh, alive and breathing.

It was over.

A knock on the door made Sam jump and Dean curse. He’d wished the food would arrive quickly to break the tense mood some, but now it only served to fix the tenseness after it already started to crack. He got their food, paid, and began to unpack it, constantly keeping one eye on Sam in case he tried to run.

He’d ordered burgers, fries, and a large chicken salad for Sam. Dean placed it on the table and Sam watched him silently until Dean walked over to him and pulled him into a tight, rough hug.

Sam stood still. He didn’t tense, he didn’t try to get away, but he didn’t hug back either. For what felt like an hour Dean simply held him close, distantly noting all the bones he could feel under the too wide clothes. He couldn’t bring himself to let go.

An eternity went by before Sam shifted in his arms and Dean felt hands rest on his back, just loosely, merely touching without holding on. At the same time Sam seemed to sink into Dean’s embrace, and then his body started shaking with silent sobs as everything broke and he cried into his brother’s shoulder.

Dean understood. Sam had been alone, too.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

If Dean had hoped that just because Sam had shed some tears on his shirt he would miraculously open up and tell his brother everything he wanted to know, he found himself bitterly disappointed. Sam barely could be talked into eating, and after finishing about half of his salad, he curled up on the bed Dean had meant for himself and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sleeping, Dean could tell. His breathing was all wrong and even with his eyes closed he seemed alert, his entire attention on the room. Perhaps waiting for Dean to fall asleep.

Dean didn’t sleep. He sat in his chair, watching his brother, and was prepared to continue doing so all night. Just seeing Sam seemed incredible after so long. He wouldn’t risk going to sleep just to wake up to an empty room.

At some point he turned his head to look at the window, lost in thought. Due to the light inside and the darkness outside he didn’t see anything beyond the reflection of the room, but that reflection was revealing enough, because it showed him that there was a man standing, inexplicably, right behind him.

Dean jumped up and startled Sam with the noise of the chair falling over.

The very same moment, Dean realised that he made a fatal error feeling safe in this room just because it was secured by salt lines, iron and arcane symbols. The man in the trench coat had gotten inside none the less – the very same man who’d come before and made Dean forget he ever saw him simply by touching his forehead.

And Dean’s gun was lying on the second bed, completely out of reach.

So Dean couldn’t shoot the guy. He could, however, get his forehead and his memories out of the guy’s reach, at which point he toppled over the chair. He could also shout a warning to Sam and do his best to get between the stranger and his brother.

The stranger tilted his head to the side and looked at Dean through narrowed eyes, as if he was a particularly interesting specimen of an alien species.

Beside him, Sam sat up, but he didn’t lunge for the gun, nor did he seem alarmed, as he should. Instead, he gave the stranger a confused frown.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, his voice still uncharacteristically flat and lacking energy. “What are you doing here?”

“Wait, what?” Dean looked from one to the other and didn’t like the situation any more than before. “You know him?”

Sam was silent for a moment before he nodded reluctantly. “That’s Castiel,” he explained. “He’s… a friend.”

“A friend? What kind of friend? The kind that has some kind of hold over you and sucks out your life force? Because let me tell you, Sammy, you’re not looking so awesome.” Hey, it was a theory, and maybe not even so far off. Remembering how awful he felt after that Cas guy touched him, Dean was willing to actually consider it.

Sam scowled at him. “Don’t be stupid, Dean.”

“It’s not my intent to harm your brother,” Castiel assured Dean, who didn’t buy it.

Just when he opened his mouth to ask just _what_ exactly Castiel was, Sam interrupted him by asking, “What’s going on, Cas? Did something happen?”

“Dean found you.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

“Wait,” Dean jumped in. “He’s been helping you run from me all the time?” He laughed bitterly. “Well, that actually makes sense.”

“Not exactly,” Sam denied. “He’s been…busy elsewhere. I haven’t actually seen him in ages.”

“Yeah? So it was just a coincidence he broke into my room one night and erased my memories?”

Sam’s head snapped around to face Castiel the second Dean finished the sentence. “He did _what_?” he hissed.

“You didn’t know?”

Sam ignored Dean. He got off the bed and stepped over to the man in the coat, suddenly seeming a lot taller than he had a moment ago, as if he’d grown. “Cas, what did you _do_?”

“I merely blocked some surface memories. The block wasn’t even very strong – as you see, it didn’t hold long.”

“Why would you do that? You had no right!”

Which was what Dean should have been saying. Not that he didn’t agree, but Sam’s strong reaction surprised him.

“I thought it would be in the best interest of both of you,” Castiel said defensively. “Zachariah had tracked him down and tried to get the plan back on track despite all the alterations.”

If possible, Sam’s face turned even whiter at the words. “Zachariah? But I thought… How is that even possible?”

“Angels are sensitive to change. He knew this wasn’t how things are supposed to be – as did Gabriel when you confronted him on that campus. Don’t worry,” Cas added quickly when Sam looked like he was going to throw up. “I killed Zachariah, and Gabriel won’t bother any of you.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Dean asked.

He was ignored by both parties. “You killed him?” Sam asked, somewhere between shocked and hopeful.

“Yes. It was the most practical option.”

“What about Michael? Raphael? Cas, this wasn’t supposed to… What happens after I…”

“I will take care of everything,” Castiel promised, but Sam still looked like he was about to freak out. He ran his hands through his overlong hair, glancing at Dean but still not talking to him.

“And what about Dean? He shouldn’t even _be_ here, and now I don’t know…” He stopped and stared at Cas again as if a thought had just come to him. “You’re not going to erase his memories. You can’t do that to him – not after everything he’s done for you!”

“What exactly did I do?” Dean asked, confused and irritated. “Could you please stop acting as if I’m not standing right here?”

They probably could, but neither of them did. “Sam,” Cas said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “You’re exhausted. You need rest.”

Judging by the look on his face, Sam’s mind was still moving quick enough to understand at once what those words implied. But his body wasn’t able to react in time to get away before Castiel pressed the tips of two fingers to his forehead. He caught Sam when he collapsed bonelessly in his arms.

“Sam!” Dean yelled, finally lunging for the gun as Castiel hoisted Sam into his arms as if he weighed nothing. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing harmful,” Castiel answered, calmly ignoring the gun pointed at him. “I merely allowed his body to find the sleep it craved.” With a few long steps, he walked past the empty bed Sam had just abandoned and placed the limp body of Dean’s brother on the bed furthest from the door. “You prefer it like this, don’t you?” he asked, removing the duffel Dean had thrown onto the end.

Dean felt puzzled for a moment and hoped it didn’t show on his face. “You are aware that now there is nothing in the way of the bullet I’m gonna fire at you?”

“There would be no point in doing so, except to make noise.”

“Yeah, your friend at the bar said the same thing.”

“Zachariah wasn’t my friend.”

“Whatever.” Dean raised the gun a little higher to aim for the guy’s face. “Fact is I haven’t tested that theory yet.”

 Cas let out a long suffering sigh. “The first time we met, you stabbed me with a demon-killing knife. It had no effect on me. Neither did the bullets Bobby fired. This time, it would be even less effective, if that were possible.”

“The first…?” That was it. The anger that had been battling with confusion finally won. “You erased my memories before? What gave you the fucking right? Don’t come closer!” he hissed when Cas took a step toward him, and took a step back himself. Then another one, and then he walked around the bed to check Sam’s breathing, all without taking his eyes or gunpoint off the stranger. “And what demon-killing knife? There is no such thing.”

“There is a demon-killing gun. Why not a knife as well? And I never touched your memories except that once.”

“Sure. Then what were you talking about just now?”

“About nothing that ever happened.” Castiel sighed, and then added, “It’s complicated.”

“I bet.”

“I merely meant to emphasise that shooting me would have no point.”

In reply, Dean shot him.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

When Dean’s magazine was empty, he sat down on the edge of the bed and listened to what Castiel had to say to him. He still didn’t trust him, but he was out of bullets, and the guy hadn’t tried to kill him yet.

That didn’t keep him from flinching away when Castiel came too close.

“I’m not going to harm you,” Sam’s friend assured him, sounding slightly irritated. “Nor will I touch your memories.”

“How would I know that? I didn’t hear you actually make that promise.”

“Sam doesn’t want me to. He has… issues… with memory loss.”

“Yeah? Then how come I am the one who has no idea what’s going on here?” Dean glanced at his brother, who had managed to sleep through an entire magazine being fired right beside him.

And so, apparently, had everyone else at the motel.

“How do you know Sam, anyway?” Dean added, because it seemed related enough to his first question.

Castiel sighed and sat down on the bed opposite Dean. “That,” he said, “is a very long story.”

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Dean got to hear the story. The entire long, fucking awful story that left him confused, incredulous and overwhelmed. Then, after it had a moment to sink in, he realised how absurd it was and was convinced Castiel was pulling his leg. Then he was just confused again, angry and lost because all evidence pointed to that story actually being true.

What Castiel told him was that he and Sam came from a different future. “Gabriel was right when he promised your father wasn’t in Hell,” the alleged angel explained. “He is in heaven, along with your mother. But he would have gone to Hell had Sam not killed him.”

“Because he was possessed?” Dean asked, sceptical and unwilling to be the idiot who believed something like this.

“No. He would have done it to save you, Dean.”

“Why would he do that?” Dean asked, automatically and without thought – it didn’t make sense. Before Castiel could answer, though, his brain moved the question aside in order to be sceptical again. “Are you trying to tell me that’s why Sam killed him? Because he knew what would happen otherwise?”

“Yes.”

“How convenient. Guess that excuses all the shit he’s done to me the last few years.” Dean looked at his brother, but Sam still slept, oblivious, so close to Dean their bodies were touching. The anger that wanted to well up in Dean never erupted, but it didn’t go away either.

“It actually does,” Cas explained without batting an eye. “Since Sam shot your father and the demon within him, the demon didn’t get away. Your car wasn’t hit by a truck and John Winchester didn’t have to sell his soul to the demon that killed his wife in order to safe you from your fatal injuries. Azazel’s chosen children were never abducted and Sam never killed, which means you never sold your soul to bring him back.”

Dean had to call for a break again after hearing that. The thought of Sam dying was like a knife to the stomach, but what came out his lips was, “So I went to Hell, too?”

“No,” Castiel said flatly. “But you would have. As a matter of fact, that is how we met.” And then he told Dean the story of how he pulled him out of Hell after forty years that were only four months in the world of the living, and how those four months had kind-of-sorta broken Sam, and how Sam then proceeded to accidentally and with the best intentions open the door to Lucifer’s cage and started the apocalypse.

And how he ended it.

So originally, pretty much every male member of Dean’s family had ended up in Hell, and now no one did. That, at least, was good – or it would have been good, had Dean actually believed that story.

“If it’s so easy to go back in time and change things, why didn’t you do it a lot sooner? And how come Sam went back, and I didn’t?” Yep, things were still not making sense here.

“We didn’t take this route before because it was impossible,” Castiel replied. “History can’t be changed – at least until very recently, from my point of view. But the course of history was derailed when the apocalypse was averted and…” He hesitated for a second before choosing a word. “Possibilities presented themselves. It still needed a lot of time and effort to be able to make this journey. And I couldn’t have caused the change myself. I needed someone else to do it for me.”

“But why Sam? Why not me?”

“Because you were dead and Sam was dying.” Not the answer Dean wanted to hear, but Castiel continued before he could ask. “I was… fighting a war against an archangel, Raphael, who wanted to get the apocalypse back on track. After everything you and Sam sacrificed to prevent it, I could not allow that to happen, but I was losing the war. Then you were killed and Sam, too, was fatally wounded by one of Raphael’s agents. The nature of the injuries was such that I could not restore your bodies. All I could do was send Sam’s soul back in time, reinstate it in his own younger body. You were already gone. That is the reason, I believe, why Sam didn’t fight harder.” The angel didn’t give Dean a chance to swallow that. “There was no plan to my action beyond the intention to give Sam back his brother and, I admit, the hope he would be able to change things in a way we would all benefit from. Especially you, Dean.”

“Me?”

“You are my friend. I saw this as an opportunity to repay you for all the sacrifices you made and offer you a better life. You deserve it.”

Castiel looked so genuine through that that Dean almost laughed. “Seriously?” he asked instead, incredulous. “Did you really think I’d be happy with my dad gone and my brother on the run from me? Or did Sam fuck that up all on his own?”

“Like I said, there was no plan. Sam’s soul arrived only moments before he killed Azazel. He found himself in this situation without warning. However, with one spontaneous action, he managed to prevent the apocalypse and the war I’ve been losing, and most importantly give you a chance at happiness.”

“Happiness?” Dean echoed? “Are you fucking kidding me? He killed Dad! Okay, I get that,” he added quickly when it looked like Cas was going to protest. “It was necessary, it was better for everyone. Alright. But then he left! He left me alone, and expected me to be happy about it? Would it have killed him to at least give me an explanation?”

“What explanation would that have been?”

“All the crap you just told me!”

“And then?” Castiel asked. “If he had wanted to leave after that, would you have let him?”

“Why would he want to leave me so badly?” A thought came to Dean – there was so much he didn’t know about that other world. “Did he hate me in the future?”

“…Yes,” the angel said, though Dean didn’t miss the second of hesitation. “Things were difficult between you, and he could barely stand your presence. If you still care about him, leave him alone. Find someone else and live your life. Forget he existed.”

Dean stared at him. Then he said, “Bullshit.”

Castiel blinked.

“Sam was trying to drive me away, and now you’re trying to do the same. For your information, Sam was better at it, and it still didn’t work, so why don’t you just give up and tell me what the hell’s going on?”

Dean had to restrain himself not to yell, even though Sam probably would have slept through that as well. Although, as if he’d sensed Dean’s agitation, Sam whimpered softly in his sleep and tossed his head left to right, only once.

While Dean, on instinct, ran a hand through Sam’s hair to calm him Castiel looked down at him and said, “Sam is going to die.”

Dean’s hand stilled. “What?”

“He’s not going to last much longer, and he knew it from the moment he was send back,” Castiel explained with some regret in his voice. “That is why he wanted you to let him go. In his original timeline, losing him destroyed you. He wished to create a distance between you so you would find someone else to… emotionally attach to and either forget about him or only look back at him in anger. If his plan had worked out, you wouldn’t have cared when he died, if you’d ever learned about it at all.”

His words left Dean numb and sort of overwhelmed. It made sense, a part of him whispered – it was the kind of fucked up plan Sammy would come up with because Sammy’s brain was gigantic but he rarely ever used it.

And it explained why he was so pale, so thin, so weary. He was dying. Dean was going to lose him.

“What’s wrong with him?” he heard his own voice ask. An illness that was there all along, that was the only explanation. Changing history didn’t chance _this_. Sam had been sick for years and Dean didn’t know.

“It’s his soul,” Castiel said gravely. “It’s killing him.”

Dean stared. “Come again? How can his _soul_ kill him?”

“It was badly damaged. When he was in Hell. The memories were blocked at first, but they are coming back more and more. It’s more than he can bear – than anyone could bear. They are literally killing him. If he does not die of physical causes before, he will eventually go insane and lose touch with reality forever.”

Dean was still staring, his mind refusing to take in the information. But his investigative instincts kicked in, making his body take over the questioning without his mind’s cooperation.

“Sam wasn’t in Hell,” he said numbly. “Not this time.”

He realises that wasn’t true before the last word left his mouth. Before Castiel explained, “I send Sam’s _soul_ back in time. It didn’t change, still carries all the damage. For him, everything still happened. The only way the old timeline still exists is in his memories.”

“But…” Another thought popped up and for the moment pushed aside everything else. It made Dean feel vaguely sick. “Does that mean he, this guy, that he took my brother’s place? _My_ Sam, from my timeline, the one who would have been if nothing had been changed? That he erased him from existence?” He felt his insides clench up and he thought he might end up hating someone, everyone.

Castiel shook his head. “This _is_ the Sam that would have been if nothing had been altered,” he said gently. “You are the one who is different.”

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

It was a lot to take in. A damn lot to take in. And Dean still wasn’t sure he was buying it.

Only, he kind of was. It all fit the picture so well. It was absolutely crazy, but it made sense. In a way.

He wouldn’t be able to make any decisions about whether he believed it or not until he was able to talk to Sam. Sam, who was dying. Sam, who was lying on the bed, tossing and whimpering and _dying_.

“Why did you tell me all this?” Dean had asked Castiel, just before the angel fluttered back to Heaven to play harp on a cloud, or whatever it was he did all day. “Why didn’t you just erase my memory again and zap Sammy off to Africa?”

“Because you would still have come after him. Even if I had taken all traces of Sam from your memory, you wouldn’t have been able to find happiness. You belong together – I had known from the start, but I owed it to Sam to try it his way. He meant well for you, Dean. But keeping you separated will only result in more suffering, for both of you. Sam, too, deserves better than that.” With that, the angel left the way he came and Dean was alone with the quiet sounds of his brother’s distress.

Sam started crying at one point – quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb anyone. Dean tried to wake him but whatever the angel had done to him was stronger than Dean’s shaking and gentle slaps. He’d have feared his brother would never wake up again if Cas hadn’t seemed to genuinely care about him.

He was still worried. Sitting beside his suffering (dying) brother being useless had never been one of his strong points.

All he could do was stroke Sam’s hair, hold his hand, talk to him as if he could hear him; girly shit like that, but it had always worked when Sam was younger. Eventually, Sam calmed down, and finally, so did Dean.

It was almost dawn by that time. Dean was exhausted – so fucking tired, and by then, after hours of frantic thinking, he felt just numb enough to find rest. Sam was sleeping peacefully now, as if Dean’s touch had taken the nightmares away, and so it seemed only logical to stay close. Dean didn’t even intend to sleep when he stretched out beside his brother for the first time in years. He just wanted to give his aching back a break, rest his burning eyes a little.

He was asleep within seconds.

When he woke up, it was noon at least. Dean hadn’t slept as good since before Dad died, and it made him feel a little guilty that he got so much rest while Sam spent half the night running from one nightmare (memory?) to the next.

He could have told himself that Sam didn’t deserve any better for all the shit he put Dean through, but yeah, who was he kidding?

Sam stirred when Dean did. Rolled to his side and then sat up – feet on the ground, his back to Dean. Groggy. Dark circles under his eyes, still, after twelve hours of sleep. Maybe a little less pale than before but still looking pretty miserable.

Dying.

There was so damn much Dean wanted to say to his brother. What he did say, in the end, was, “Alternate future, huh?”

It seemed a good starting point.

Sam blinked at him, something like resignation on his face. It was the emotion Dean had seen most since their reunion. Not joy, not shame, but resignation that Dean was here now and Sam couldn’t do anything about it.

“Cas told you?” It wasn’t quite a question – how else would Dean know?

“You mean it’s true?”

“Well. Yeah. I guess – I mean, I don’t know what he told you, but generally, yes. Alternate future. I’m sorry.”

What the heck was he apologizing for? “So, all these hunts you did. Those weren’t visions, it was you remembering doing them before.”

Sam nodded. He looked wary.

“So what happens now? What happens next?”

“Next I’m going to save Kate and Adam Milligan from being eaten by ghouls.”

“Uh, no. You won’t.”

Sam’s gaze became a lot sharper when he glared at Dean, obviously expecting an argument. So Dean hurried to add, “While you were getting your beauty sleep, your buddy from heaven told me he already took care of them. You’re done here.”

Sam made a non-committal sound, nodded slowly, and looked right through Dean as wheels were turning in his head. “Dean,” he finally said, just when big brother was beginning to grow impatient. “There’s something you should know. About Adam.”

“The Milligan boy? What about him?”

Once again, Sam was silent for a long time. “He’s,” he finally said. “He. Well.” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“He’s what, Sam?” Dean asked, impatience finally winning over.

“Forget it, Dean. Just. I’ll tell you later, okay? Just give me… give me a minute.”

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s irritation immediately turned to concern, but Sam shook his head again.

“Just tired.”

“Well, it was a rough night,” Dean had to admit. “Some friend you have there. Knocks you out and then fucks off to leave you to your nightmares. Seriously, that guy’s a dick.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam said tiredly. “I don’t like it when he does that without my consent, but it actually helps. I sleep better when he puts me under.”

Dean thought back to the tossing, the whimpers. “That was _better_?”

Sam just nodded.

“Jesus, Sammy! What does it look like when you have a _bad_ night?”

“I’m trying to avoid those.” Sam offered a weak grin, even as Dean’s brain did the math.

“That why you look like death warmed over? You avoid bad dreams by not sleeping?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s the only method I can think of.” He snorted softly. “Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s not like I didn’t try. I tried _everything_ , even those pills you gave me. They don’t help. And neither does getting black-out drunk.”

“Wait, what?” The confusion was back again. “I never gave you any pills.”

His words resulted in Sam staring at him for a good ten seconds. “Right,” he finally said. “Sorry.”

“Was that an alternate future thing?”

“You could say that.”

“You come from a strange universe, Sammy.” Dean forced a grin, because if he didn’t try to make fun of the situation, he’d go crazy. “As if I’d ever support your drug habit.”

Judging by the way Sam flinched at his words; it was exactly the wrong thing to say. “No,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t.”

“So, what are those pills I found in your duffle?” Dean asked uncomfortably, trying to move on and hoping he actually was. “I thought sleeping pills don’t work.”

Sam frowned at him. It was a rather bitchy expression that was totally Little Brother and actually made Dean feel a bit better. “You went through my stuff?” Sam asked, as if he couldn’t believe Dean would do something that outrageous.

Or at least that Dean hadn’t grown out of stuff like that after he hit twenty-five.

“Dude,” Dean said. “You ran from me for three years. It’s not even a glass house.”

Sam didn’t look like he thought that argument counted. “Don’t go through my stuff, Dean! I’m not a teenager – you can’t go through my bags anymore in hopes of finding condoms to tease me about.”

Dean snorted. “Like you ever got laid, bitch. And it’s not like you have anything interesting in there anyway. What did you do all these years when you weren’t hunting? Surf the internet for gay porn?”

“Nah, that would have reminded me too much of you.”

Dean couldn’t help himself – he laughed. That was Sam, alright. And he had him back. They had _each other_ back. Everything else they’d work out with time, no matter what Castiel said.

Everything would be okay. For this moment, everything _was_ okay, and because of that, Dean was willing to let go of his question for now and just enjoy the moment while it lasted.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean and Sam stayed together after that. The next day, Dean got Sam back into the Impala and they drove off. Sam never asked where they were going, even though he had to realise they were moving with purpose instead of aimlessly driving around in search of the next hunt.

Dean wasn’t interested in hunting, not at the moment. He’d done a few if they happened to basically drop on him, but by and large he’d been out of the business for a couple of years. Looking for Sam had left him little time for anything else.

Also, it seemed that any potential hunt in his path Sam had already taken care of.

That wasn’t the reason, though. He and Sam had only just reunited. No matter how unwilling Dean was to face some things, they had a lot of issues to work through before they could get back to a job where one’s life depended on the other. Learn each other again.

Then there was the issue of Sam’s health. The way he looked, Dean didn’t know how he’d survived hunting on his own for so long, knowing what to expect in any hunt or not. Big Brother would have to get him back in form first – fatten him up, make sure he got some sleep. They were headed to the perfect place for that. And once Sam was better… well, then they’d see.

They didn’t talk about any of that. Dean had a lot of questions about the future, but at the same time he didn’t want to know about the life Sam had lived without him. Just like he never really wanted to know about the life Sam had had in Stanford, though it was probably not quite the same.

Sam didn’t ask about Dean’s time alone either. He was quiet all the way, if he wasn’t bitching about Dean’s music. It was almost the only time they talked. The rest of the time, Sam busied himself staring out of the window, sometimes relaxed, sometimes nervous and distracted. Once he even started to hyperventilate and the moment Dean noticed and stopped the car, he practically fell out at the side of the road to retch for the next five minutes straight.

Good thing they were about the take an extended break.

Altogether, Sam went through a lot of moods in a ride that only took a little more than two hours because of street repairs and a traffic accident that had half the road blocked off. After the first hour, Sam popped in one of the unmarked pills he kept in his duffle, and when he noticed Dean staring at him, he only shrugged and asked, “Does Bobby even know we’re coming?”

Dean blinked. “How do you know we’re going to Bobby’s?”

“We’re always going to Bobby’s when we’re taking a break.”

“No, we don’t.” With the exception of one brief visit when Dean happened to be in the area, he hadn’t been to his place in years. And in the days they were travelling together, between Jess and Dad, they had visited Bobby exactly once. Just before.

Sam shrugged. “Well, we should. Better than a motel room any day. And it’s not like Bobby has any family left. I bet he missed you.”

“That why he keeps calling me an ‘idjit’ just about every time I call?” Den asked drily.

“Yes. And because you _are_ an idjit.”

“Please. You’re hurting my feelings.”

“Only an idiot would waste years of his life running after someone who betrayed him,” Sam said matter-of-factly, causing Dean to take a deep breath. But if Sam expected him to take the bait and get angry, he found himself disappointed.

“Sam,” Dean said, very calmly. “If anyone’s an idiot here, it’s the one who wasted years running from someone who’d never let him go. You get that? I only have you.”

“Exactly.” Sam seemed to already have given up on his plan to start a fight that might lead to Dean kicking him out at the side of the road. “I wanted you to have someone else. As long as I’m around, you won’t start looking.”

“That’s because I don’t want anyone else,” Dean snapped. After a second he added, “Well. A hot chick, perhaps, because let me tell you, there are some itches you just can’t scratch. And a drinking buddy who doesn’t get emo and pass out after three beers. But none of that would be any fun if you’re not there, too. I couldn’t enjoy anyone else as long as I don’t know where you are, how you’re doing, and that you’re going to pick up the phone when I call you. So, yeah, basically the last three years were pretty miserable for me, thank you very much.”

Sam was silent after that. Dean would have preferred if he’d defended himself, but he just looked down and let the world go by outside the window.

After a while, Dean said conversationally, “So, you think Bobby finally cleaned up his yard by now?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam shake his head. “He didn’t.”

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Sam was right – Bobby’s yard looked as messy as always, and not just because of the old and broken cars standing around. And if he was honest, Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. He didn’t exactly grow up in that yard – they hadn’t been at the place that often, after all – but whenever they came, playing between the cars had been a favourite pastime for him and Sam. Right until the time Sam learned about hunting, figured it out on his own, really – and Dad had decided that their days of playing hide-and-seek between rusty cars were over.

Sam grew out of playing in the yard when he was eight.

With his brother so quiet beside him, Dean wondered if he was thinking the same. If he was remembering the moments they shared in this place, or if he was lost in memories that belonged only to himself, shared with a Dean who’d never exist.

Damn timelines. Dean hated them. Castiel might have been right when he claimed that Sam would have ended up as exactly the person he was if the past had never been changed, but Dean had missed all of him getting there and he felt like a stranger.

He’d lost his brother and he couldn’t even grieve because Sam was right beside him, as he should be. And all he could do about it was hope he wasn’t going to lose this one as well.

Bobby was home and came out when he noticed the Impala stopping in front of his house. To say that he was surprised to see Sam would have been an understatement, but he kept good check on his emotions, showering them with gruff remarks and insults. Sam, for his part, held back his enthusiasm, though he was obviously happy to see their old friend again.

Dean answered Bobby’s questions with minimal explanations about Sam being a well-meaning idiot and promised in not-so-many words to tell him more later. Sam offered no explanation himself, but he had to pick up on the non-verbal communication. The fact that he didn’t react to it at all Dean counted as a general permission to tell Bobby everything Castiel had told him.

But not at once. First, they had dinner. Bobby wasn’t prepared for their visit – and he made quite clear that he would have appreciated a call ahead – but he found some cans in the kitchen cabinets, some bags in the freezer. In the end they had too much, because Sam barely touched his food.

Dean’s brother was the first to head upstairs, claiming he remembered where all the spare sheets were and would prepare their room himself. Dean and Bobby were left behind in the living room, each nursing a bottle of beer, neither their first one.

“You sure he’s okay?” Bobby asked in a rare display of gruff concern. “Kid looks like hell.”

“He’s gonna be fine, Bobby,” Dean insisted. “That’s why we’re here. So he can get back into shape before we go back to hunting.”

“What I made of your reports, he’s been hunting non-stop for the past coupla years. No surprise he wants to hit the sack early.”

“I don’t think he’s going to sleep just yet,” Dean admitted. “Actually, he isn’t so big on sleep lately.”

 “Maybe that’s the problem,” Bobby concluded. “So, how about you get another beer and tell me what the heck is going on.”

Dean sighed. “I think we’re going to need something stronger for that. You still keep the whisky in the same place? ”

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

As expected, Sam didn’t sleep that first night at Bobby’s or the one after, or the one after that. He just paced around all night or flirted with his laptop. It shot Dean’s own sleeping patterns to all hell, because a part of Dean was constantly afraid that the moment he fell asleep, Sam would quietly fuck off again and maybe the next time he read his brother’s name it would be on a headstone.

Which, of course, was bullshit. Sam didn’t have anyone to bury him, apart from some elusive angle who might not even be around to notice.

When Dean eventually fell into proper sleep the third night and woke up in the morning after still too little rest, the bed beside him was empty and for a moment he was convinced Sam had left him again. He nearly tripped over his own feet when he ran down the stairs but found his brother in the living room, in front of the old, grainy TV that Bobby kept insisting would do for another twenty years. It was turned off, and Sam was sitting hunched over the coffee table, a blanket draped over his shoulders. When Dean got closer, he saw that his brother was writing something in that journal of his. The one with the list. Probably editing that the Milligans had been saved.

He didn’t notice Dean until Dean touched his shoulder, and then he jumped and almost drove his pen through his brother’s hand. Only his quick reflexes spared Dean a potential case of blood poisoning, while Sam looked like he was a second away from a nervous breakdown. After calming down, he went back to whatever he’d been doing but remained nervous and jumpy.

He collapsed before Bobby got up.

While Sam slept, a deep sleep that was only inches away from a coma, Dean had a look at the list. It was for him anyway, he gathered when he looked it over. It seemed a logical conclusion, because Sam had added more information on every case and made an effort to actually write readable for once.

Beside the names, dates and places that had made Sam’s list, Sam had added pages with further details on whatever he had dealt with the first time round, what to take into consideration, how to kill it. Hiding places were listed, people to look out for.

 _Glenwood_ _Springs Psychiatric Hospital, Ketchum, Oklahoma, September 2009_ Dean read. _Nurse is a wraith, kills patients, makes it look like suicides. Will know you’re a hunter. Do not go alone. Avoid extended contact. Kill quickly._

It was followed by details on when the killings started and who the victims would be. That was Sam, remembering the names of people he had never met from years ago.

It wasn’t like he could look it up somewhere.

Another entry told Dean that a girl would summon the goddess Veritas over relationship troubles in 2011. Sam advised to stop her but also gave information on what to do if for some reason that failed. Once again, he wrote not to go alone. It was advice Dean found in most entries.

Sam had solved all the crossed out cases on his own. But then, he always knew what he was dealing with.

It didn’t really make Dean feel any better.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Around noon, the nightmares started. Five minutes after Sam’s first scream, Dean began to understand why his brother had told him the night Castiel had knocked him out had been one of the better ones. Both him and Bobby had to hold his thrashing brother down to keep him from throwing himself off the bed. They were utterly unable to wake him.

When Sam finally woke up, after hours of terror, it got worse. He didn’t recognize either of them, kept trying to get away and fought them with a strength he shouldn’t have possessed after hours of violent struggling.

When they managed to pin him down without any hope of getting away, all fight left Sam one moment to the next and he stared screaming; a hoarse wail that broke Dean’s heart.

Eventually, Sam passed out again, and Dean was exhausted enough to fall over himself. His own dark thoughts kept him awake. This was Sam now. This was Sam and he wasn’t okay at all.

It was clear now why Sam had updated his list so Dean and Bobby would be able to take over the future cases. But Dean wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about Castiel, and that he’d better get his feathery ass down here to help his brother. He was an angel, after all, wasn’t he? Angels were the guys responsible for miracles.

Unfortunately, Dean didn’t have his number. All he had was the worry that Sam would never wake up at all, that he would die just as the angel had predicted, because he was thin and weak and had pushed his body far beyond its limit. He’d developed a fever that burned constantly, without spikes or lows, and kept twitching and whimpering weakly, never finding true rest.

It was obvious that Sam was fighting, but certainly not for his life.

Eventually Dean did fall asleep as well, though it was more of a passing out. He woke up after what felt like seconds to find his brother gone.

Bobby hadn’t noticed him leave. He looked in the yard while Dean looked all over the house, increasingly frantic, until he finally found his brother in the basement.

Sam was sitting in a corner of the large, high room with the air vent in the ceiling, legs drawn to his chest and looking ridiculously small and young.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said softly, sitting beside his brother but not touching him in case that would prove too much.

“It’s just a basement,” Sam whispered.

“Uhm, yeah.” Dean didn’t know what to make of that. If he was honest, he didn’t really care. Sam was talking again, and when he looked at Dean, there was no fear in his eyes.

“So, your buddy Cas,” Dean said after a moment of silence, aiming for a light tone. “How would I get in contact with him? I mean, if I actually wanted to talk to him.”

“He’s an angel,” Sam said. “You pray.”

“Huh. That actually works?”

“If he has the time.”

“Oh, right. Guess he’s busy a lot. Because this world doesn’t look like a lot of prayers get answered.”

“That’s not how it works,” Sam said, sounding only tired. “But they hear you.”

Dean wasn’t convinced. He also didn’t try to call Cas because praying in front of his brother would have made him feel silly. Instead, he gently pulled Sam to his feet and led him upstairs, where he settled him on the couch and went to tell Bobby he’d found him.

Bobby would have appreciated being told sooner.

Dean left the job of watching over Sam to him and went back to the basement, where he stood in the middle of the room and said, “Um.”

So, this was a little harder than he thought, since Dean had no idea what to say. His mom had been much better at this.

Fat lot of good it did her.

Lacking another idea, Dean went for the words she taught him when he was little. “As I lay me down to sleep, I pray to Castiel, the angel, because it would be fantastic if he managed to drop down here right now and help my brother.”

“I can’t help your brother,” a voice sounded behind Dean and made him turn around so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Not in a way you are going to like, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“After he is lost completely, I will take his soul to Heaven.”

Dean got immediately what that meant. “You’re going to _kill_ him?”

“If I have to,” Castiel said calmly. “The stress might kill him without my influence, or he might end his own life.”

“You asshole,” Dean pressed out between clenched teeth. The angel merely blinked at him.

“You do not understand what it means. Sam’s soul might not make it to Heaven on its own. I will take care of it there, and after your time is over, you will be reunited. Was there anything else you wanted?”

Dean needed a moment to register the question, and when he did, he chose to ignore it. “I don’t even believe in Heaven. And neither does Sam.”

“He does. He always did, and he has seen it with his own eyes.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

“You believe in Hell.”

“I know demons.”

“You believe in Hell and demons, but not in Heaven and angels,” Castiel mused. “You’re still quite contradictory.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t call you here to have a theological debate. Isn’t there _anything_ you can do for Sam? And nothing that requires any deeper religious beliefs, if you don’t mind.”

“Sam _is_ religious,” Castiel told him patiently. “He always was.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“We heard his prayers ever since he was a child. He prayed every day, asking us to protect you and your father, praying for his mother’s soul and for forgiveness for his sins. He merely never told you.”

“He knew well not to. What a stupid thing to do.”

Castiel only looked at Dean. Dean became aware that he was having this conversation with an angel and decided to move on.

“You put him to sleep the other day. Do that again.”

Cas seemed to contemplate the request. “I will,” he promised eventually. “But not yet. Call me when Sam is ready to sleep next time and I will come if I can.”

“He’s ready to sleep _now_!”

“No. Right now, Bobby is trying to feed him, which at this time is more important. Also, Sam just slept. He won’t require more rest for a while.”

“Have you _looked_ at him?” Dean exploded. “No, of course not. Too busy being elsewhere. Well, let me tell you, the kid needs sleep, real sleep, like, yesterday!”

Castiel still refused to let go of his patience. “You need to understand, Dean,” he said mildly. “Even with my help, Sam’s sleep is anything but peaceful. After it got bad, we agreed to let him avoid it unless absolutely necessary. Call me when that time comes.” With that, he was gone, and Dean was left standing alone under the giant fan in the ceiling.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Castiel had been right: Bobby was trying to get Sam to eat, and Sam was doing his best. When Dean got back to the living room, his brother was bravely picking up a half-eaten sandwich and trying to swallow another bite. His cheeks were flushed and he was still pale. He also looked a little sick. Dean wondered if there was something wrong with his stomach. Maybe they should take him to a doctor, have them check him over.

Bobby wouldn’t like it if Sam threw up on his couch. But Dean was confident he’d get over it.

“So,” he said as he flopped down beside his brother. “Angels, huh? Must have been a big thing for you, getting your belief confirmed like that.”

He might have actually been feeling a little miffed that Sam had religious feelings and never told Dean about them. But if his brother recognized the concealed provocation in Dean’s voice, he never showed it. He only sighed softly and put the sandwich back on the plate.

“I used to believe in angels,” he admitted, his voice quiet and rough from screaming. “Now I know they exist. It’s not the same.”

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

One day after their last meeting, Dean called Cas again to come and help his brother sleep. The angel came, and Sam was okay with being knocked out, even though he looked nervous and close to tears.

Dean crashed after Sam had been settled on the bed, his own lack of sleep and the stress of the past days catching up with him. All he could do before falling asleep was push off his shoes and crawl into bed beside Sam, holding him close.

He wasn’t woken by Sam’s nightmares that day. It was probably because he’d slept far too deeply to be woken by anything, Dean thought, but Sam looked a little better, a little more rested when he woke up, and he was more willing to let Cas put him under the next time, three days, several gallons of black coffee and plenty of caffeine pills later.

This time Dean didn’t sleep until much later, but he crawled into bed with Sam anyway, pulling him up until he was resting comfortably on Dean’s chest and in his arms.

Sam still had nightmares that night, but they were brief and harmless in comparison. Apparently, Dean was exactly what Sam needed to get through the night, and it was ironic (but painfully so) that he had spent three years running from the only thing that could help him.

Well, not the _only_ thing. It was the combination of Dean’s proximity and Castiel’s angel mojo that did it. They found that out when one day Cas didn’t come and Sam eventually fell asleep on his own. Even Dean couldn’t prevent that night from being a thoroughly miserable experience for everyone involved.

But altogether it was an improvement. A big improvement. As long as both Dean and Cas managed to do their part, Sam got more rest than in a long time, even though it still wasn’t enough. While he still didn’t eat much, at least he ate something every day and even managed to gain a few pounds. He got sick less often and was more stable mentally.

He’d never be okay, and Cas warned Dean and Bobby more than once not to forget that. But Sam was better, had some more time than he would have had otherwise, and Dean was determined to make use of that time and find a way to fix him. He wouldn’t let his brother go like that. He’d figure something out.

Cas warned him of that, too.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

They had been reunited for two weeks and at Bobby’s place for almost as long when Sam mentioned Adam Milligan again.

That morning, when Dean came out of the shower, Sam sat in front of Bobby’s ancient computer and told him he’s gotten a message from the boy’s mother in which she confirmed that she and her son were now living in an entirely ghoul-free environment. Then he continued to tell Dean that the ghouls targeted them because John Winchester killed their father in 1990 and he and Adam’s mother had been…

“Dude,” Dean interrupted him there. “I really don’t want to know about that.”

“But Adam’s…”

“I’m glad the boy and his mom are okay,” Dean explained as he pulled on his shirt. “And that’s exactly as far as my interest goes.”

He expected Sam to ignore his words because he was bitchy and insistent like that, but Sam didn’t say anything for so long Dean started to worry. Sam spaced out sometimes, and that was never a good sign. When he looked over to his brother, the kid was staring at him, and he was kind of pale, but it wasn’t the stare the usually preceded a major freak-out. Sam eyes seemed to be fixed on Dean’s chest, and when Dean moved, Sam’s eyes followed.

It was slightly unnerving and eventually caused Dean to look down and check if he’d grown a pair of boobs without noting. There was only his flat, manly chest, though, and his old Metallica t-shirt wasn’t particularly insulting either.

“Sam, what’s wrong?”

“Your amulet,” Sam breathed.

“My amulet?” Dean looked down again to where it was dangling on his chest as it always was. “What about it?”

“You’re wearing it.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I _always_ wear it.” But then Dean realised why Sam thought he wouldn’t. So far it had been hidden under shirts and jackets most of the time, and after Sam killed Dad and avoided his brother for three years, he probably thought Dean had melted the thing, or something like that.

“Well,” Dean said. “I know things have been rocky between us” – Sam actually laughed a little at the understatement – “but I never even thought about not wearing it anymore. It’s just become such a part of me, you know.” He took a deep breath, hesitated, and then decided to just glue shut Sam’s laptop if he dared to call him girly for what he was about to say next. “I guess this proves that despite everything, I never really gave up on you. I wanted you back, Sammy. If I’d thrown this away, I would just as well have stopped looking for you.”

Sam didn’t call him girly. Instead, he folded up on his chair, hid his face in his arms and began to cry.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

There was a case in Canton, Ohio which Dean and Sam took together. A pagan god had taken refuge in a museum and intended to kill visitors in the appearance of various famous people. It was odd what pagan gods came up with nowadays to get their kicks.

Sam knew the case, so Dean took him along. It went well. And it felt a little like before.

Three days later Sam was down sick. He was feverish and couldn’t keep anything down. Dean didn’t think it had anything to do with the case since Sam was sick often, but it worried him none the less, because there was another case coming up, one he couldn’t do on his own, and neither he nor Bobby wanted to leave Sam alone.

“Call Rufus to help you out,” Sam eventually suggested.

“Who’s Rufus?” Dean asked, confused, while Bobby looked vaguely uncomfortable and insisted that Rufus would kill them all before getting back into the business.

“Ellen, then,” Sam said, adding to Dean’s confusion.

“What Ellen?” Bobby asked, apparently not much less confused.

“Harvelle.”

“Ellen Harvelle? Bill’s girl? She’s not a hunter. Not an active one, anyway.”

“Jo, then?”

“What, little Jo? She never was a hunter in the first place.”

“She is.”

“She’s not. Ellen would kill her.”

“She is,” Sam insisted. “Ellen doesn’t like it.” Then gave Bobby the number of Ellen’s roadhouse and made him call.

Half an hour later Bobby walked back into the living room where Sam was fighting sleep with the help of Dean and the TV, muttering something about parallel universes being freaking creepy.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

Dean met Joanna Beth Harvelle two days later: a very pretty girl, a little younger than Sam, who’d grown up among hunters and started following in her father’s footsteps a couple of years ago. Apparently her late father had been a friend of Dean’s late father and her mother ran a bar that served as a meeting place and centre of information for hunters all over the country.

Dean had never heard of it, and his dad had never mentioned Bill Harvelle. Dean wondered if there was a story to it, but Jo didn’t know anything about John Winchester except that he existed. Apparently her mother had lost contact with Dean’s father around the time Jo’s father died – according to Bobby, she hadn’t even known John was dead before he called her, though she had feared as much when no one heard of him in ages.

Dean had told Bobby back then, but no one else. All other friends of John’s he knew about had been killed by the demon Meg or died years before. In the end, after killing countless monsters and saving countless people, the world didn’t even notice when John Winchester was gone.

It was a fate Dean was determined to spare his brother.

Seeing Jo, who wasn’t much younger than Sam but looked to be around half his age brought to Dean’s attention just how much older than his years Sam looked. It was only logical, he guessed; Sam _was_ older than his years, after all. It was still disturbing, though, and kept Dean from hitting on the girl too hard throughout the hunt.

The hunt, a haunting in New Jersey, wasn’t complicated, but not easy either. They needed three days to take care of everything because the bodies belonging to the three pissed off ghosts had been cremated and they needed to find the object they all were attached too while at the same time protecting the remaining descendants of their murderers. Dean called Bobby twice a day to check on Sam, until Bobby finally cut off his last call with an irritated “Do your job and stop getting on my nerves!”

Working with Jo went smoothly. She gave Dean her contact information when they parted and they agreed to help each other out if the need came up.

On the way back to Sioux Falls, Dean broke speed limits left and right.

 

 

*-*-*-*

 

 

It was dark when Dean arrived at the salvage yard. The door was unlocked, but there was no trace of Bobby when Dean entered and no one answered his calls. It had him worried for a moment – until he entered the living room and found Castiel sitting on the couch with Sam resting in his arms. The angel looked sternly at Dean.

“Please be quiet. Bobby is asleep and I wish not to deal with him should you wake him up.”

Right then, Dean didn’t care much about Bobby’s sleep. “What about Sam?” he asked.

Sam was nestled safely against the angel’s chest, and seeing that picture made Dean… something. Maybe angry. Maybe protective. Or jealous. Castiel knew Sam, this Sam, in a way Dean never would, and Sam trusted him like this. Dean didn’t like it.

“Sam’s asleep as well.”

Dean could see that. He could also see that his brother’s sleep wasn’t peaceful. Sam was twitching and whimpering softly, despite Cas’ obvious efforts to keep him under.

“I’m doing my best to keep the nightmares away,” Cas explained as Dean settled on the free spot on the couch. Without a word, the hunter reached out and pulled his little brother out of the angel’s arms and into his own.

Sam didn’t calm down immediately, but after a while, with Dean stroking his hair, he fell quiet.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Dean asked. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen to Sam if anything happened to Dean and he couldn’t even fucking sleep anymore.

“No,” Cas said quietly. “Not always.” But he didn’t mean it in any way Dean liked to think about.

Damn angel and his stubborn refusal to be optimistic.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were busy elsewhere.”

“Sam is sick and in need of rest. I came to help him.”

“Well, since when do you have the time to stay?”

Cas seemed to sink a little further into the couch. “I changed the timeline, Dean. Such a thing does not go unnoticed by Heaven.”

“So what? You’ve been on trial or something?”

“Or something. A lot of high ranking angels are not happy with what I have done. I managed to convince some of them that things are better this way – for the world as well as for them. Their original plan would have failed anyway. They know that now.”

“So everything’s cool?”

“Things have been rough for awhile. They will continue to be somewhat difficult, but the worst is over. The archangel Gabriel has taken my side, which is incredibly helpful. So yes, for the moment everything is ‘cool’.”

“Well, good for you.” Suddenly, Dean remembered where he heard that name before. “Wait a minute – the archangel Gabriel wouldn’t happen to be the Janitor of Evil I met the night you killed that Zachariah guy?”

“The same.” Castiel looked somewhat embarrassed for a moment. “He gets… creative, sometimes, in his attempts to entertain himself.”

“Huh,” Dean said.

In his arms, Sammy shifted a little and let out a soft sigh. His fever was down, Dean noticed. Once he had gotten enough rest and some food, he’d be up to another easy hunt.

Or maybe they should forget about the hunt and do something nonviolent for once. Like go to an amusement park or visit the Grand Canyon. Dean had always wanted to see it, and he was sure Sam would love it as well. He was into stuff like that.

Unless he’d already been there. He had spent years with another Dean who must have wanted to go there as well, after all.

“Did Sam ever see the Grand Canyon?”

Castiel thought for a moment. “I don’t think he has.”

“That’s kinda sad.”

“I suppose it is. You often spoke of going.”

“Why didn’t we?”

“The opportunity never presented itself. There was always something more important to do.”

That was sad, too. Maybe it was time for Dean to finally give his brother a bit of a life outside the family business.

And himself as well.

Of course there was still Sammy’s list to take care of. But Castiel could help with that now he had some time and apparently nothing else to do. He knew the cases as well, at least partially, and as Dean understood it, there wasn’t much that could hurt an angel. Cas taking over that work made a lot of sense.

Besides, a lot of the cases still on Sam’s list had been crossed out by now because things changed and the case never came to exist in the first place. The further from the break in the timeline, the greater the changes. People died, or never met, or simply weren’t at the right place in the right time to be accidentally killed during a cruel prank of their idiot co-workers.

Sometimes the things Sam tried to prevent still happened, but little details changed and the werewolf went to hunt a little sooner or the killer chose a different hide-out and different victims. That he’d been here before didn’t mean Sam could save everyone.

One more reason to have the all powerful angel help them a little.

If he was actually willing to do it. It occurred to Dean that maybe he should take Castiel’s plans into consideration as well.

“So, I get you wanted to keep an eye on Sam, but I’m back now,” he pointed out to the angel who was still sitting on the couch beside him and Sam, his hands now lying in his lap as if he was missing Sam’s warmth. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Castiel shook his head, his expression soft. “Sam is my friend. And one day, I hope, you will be again, too. I want to help you both.”

Well, that answered that. Before Dean brought up the subject of ensuring his eternal gratitude by taking care of monsters so Dean and Sam could go on a joyride through the United States, another question had to be asked. Even though Dean kind of didn’t want to.

Sam, in his sleep, moved his hand over Dean’s chest until it found the amulet and held on.

And Dean just had to ask.

“When… _if_ Sam dies… Or if I get killed on a hunt, or run over by a car, or kick the bucket in any other way before him, are you gonna take me to Heaven, too? I mean, are you gonna deliver him to me - or me to him? Whoever goes first? I just need to know that I won’t lose him forever.”

“I think you have proven already that that’s not possible.” For the first time ever, Dean saw Castiel smile. “And it doesn’t work the way you imagine. Normally, no angel is needed to escort a soul to Heaven if it deserves a place there. Only Sam’s case is different. His soul is so damaged the normal rules of Heaven don’t apply to it anymore. Therefore, I will take it there myself, and take care of it until it heals. You, Dean, will need no help to find your way back to your brother when your time comes.”

Dean didn’t doubt that for a second.

 

 

July 6, 2011


End file.
